Dirty plates gather, by the side of the sink,
for some, it would be nightmarish,
tackling this paltry pile, but I think,
it’s therapy, to clean up a dish,
thus, at the dive I’ll go, give unto me clarity,
it’s called Fairy Liquid,
let the porcelain shine, in benign beauty,
thought the task may be insipid.
As I start washing the glasses, my mind veers off,
to meditate, about the world,
and it’s impurities, that itself, and us, do bluff,
so, I continue, being so bold.
If only the stains upon these cups, were a real hitch,
such as, the lack of water,
to those that live, in hot places, where a dried up ditch,
is the cause of their slaughter,
hence, after the last glass gleams, let all the world drink,
making a toast in harmony,
where you’ll hear the sound, of the long lost; go clink,
a soundtrack of comradery.
I move onto the cutlery next, of which, I do take care,
for they are very sharp,
in my reflection, they symbolise war, too many scares,
that I wish, could stop,
to those who misread the scriptures, to those greedy suits,
I’m armed with my scour,
to wipe away your misplaced murders, and your fake salutes,
making a new finest hour.
The plates are finally here, to soak in the bath I’ve made,
they’re so covered in grime,
in my scrubbing, I try to count, the times; man has shamed,
comprising many crimes,
sides are made, prolonged by division and dissatisfaction,
it’s a case of pick and choose,
the elected can, but you cannot, an explosive reaction,
where the winners, always lose,
thus in this moment, as I wash, these pigments I imagine,
to be their apologies,
the soiled water; goes down the drain, watch it happen,
the birth of needed ease.
My time at the sink is over now, things do look a lot tidier,
but, I feel some sorrow,
the monsters mentioned, still exist, thus I recall my idea:
if only the world, was like a wash bowl!