Dishwasher, I don’t trust you.
You don't have muscles. You can't body my dishes. No arms flexed, jaw tense, hard scrubbing. Just hot water under pressure. I don't care what physics says, I do like, 50 pushups a day... When I'm working out. Sometimes you prove me right, and hubby almost sees right through you. Like this morning, When you left blow-dried peanut butter on one of the only knives in our collection. Even after 1 hour, 16 minutes on sani-wash. These calloused hands wouldn't do that. No, I'd rather let the dishes pile up. Leave them clambering for light, Instead of plunging them into the dark. I don't trust that dark. I need to squeeze the sponge around the fingers of my forks, Triceps poppin' Then pull up. One uniform motion. Soap cascading over stubby thumbs. I need to cradle my favorite mug, Gently in the palms of hands it knows. I'm in control. If it breaks, it's on me. I need to scrub the faces of my plates, Like my own face. Scoured daily with salicylic microbeads. The cuts on my hands let me know when things are truly clean. I need to see veins bulging when I break out the Brillo, Angry at the pot. Furiously erasing evidence of yet another Pinterest fail, Or kitchen fight. Anyway, It's been a long day. These arms are too tired for dishes. I know it's only Monday, But it can wait til the weekend. I'd rather not leave them alone with you.