Ode Challenge: Ode to a Tearful Dishwasher

Ode to a Tearful Dishwasher (blog: The Dishwasher's Tears

This is for the man who stands at the sink,
who forgets he’s washing dishes,
who forgets he’s a man, a father, a son,
husband. This is for the man who stands
at the sink, rapt at the illusion: His hands
severed at the wrists by suds dying
slow deaths in the dishpan is so convincing
that he briefly misses each finger
and wonders how he’ll live without being
able to touch ever again. This is for the man
who stands at the sink crying as he rinses
a plate, yet the cold water rushing over skin
and porcelain does not wake him from his reverie;
he is Helen Keller putting it all together,
the secret is being spelled out in his hands right here,
right now. Every breath is a small epiphany;
he breathes because he can’t not. He breathes
because he can. His are not tears of grief.
From where he stands at the sink, he can see
the full moon rising. He can hear his wife waiting
in the living room as he places the last plate
in the rack and dumps the dirty water down the drain.