Washer

A dishwasher worked away just like any
other day at an endless pile of dishes
that had to be done, and he couldn’t go home
until he finally finished them all.
The mist spread out to every wall and creeped
along the two way mirror that hovered
in between him and the office.
The extra weight of endless hours in the gaps
of frugal breaks added up to make these
uphill moments kill like every headache ever had.
There was a trail of blood back along the path
in his memories, and it lead up to this
moment where the end was so obscured
by bursts of steam. There’s no halfway point
in forever that stuck out like a sign along
a highway catching headlights like a spider
catches pieces of the rain.
He wanted to walk to the bus stop in the fall
sundown taking dying leaves as signs
he should believe.
He couldn’t though he was stuck there like
the trees held by the hillside wondering why
the world was made the way it was.
In that flooded sink all full up with the front
edge of the pile every chemical and biological
remnant of the food had become primordial
in a way. Now if you had a microscope
big enough you could see another universe
past the foam and through apparent
degradation, and in it there was a dish washer
thinking all the same things he was,
unaware that all above him was a detailed
new extension of the now.

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