An Ode to the Slimy Things in my Sink
I wet my porridge pot, the king
Of slimy things, and relinquish the responsibility
Into the heaving sink.
The glutinous onion jam from last night’s soup
Stares me down with shiny eyes—
I cover it with disdain,
Creating a small volcano of sink water.
Insidious drips pervade,
Unnoticed but for the smell,
but then In a couple of hours, the floor
floods, Littered like a polluted
The pots and pans are floating an
inch, The ramen from two nights past,
Grabbing my ankles, like irate
seaweed. The salt spills into the mix
And I might as well be in a fetid
ocean, Now that the mackerel,
In various stages of decomposition
Begin to swim up the pipes.
A mighty gurgling is heard—
I scramble to the kitchen table for survival
As a slew of wet food spurts forth from the sink. The
water is a murky shade of brine,
The teabags are swimming in shoals,
And I am finding myself swiftly covered In the
reeking remains of last week’s dinner.