The Love Song of A. MacDonald, Dishman

To get full enjoyment, you should refresh your memory of TS Eliot's "The Love Song of Alred Prufrock".

 The Love Song of A. MacDonald, Dishman (2012)

Let us go then, you and I,

When the dishes are piled far and high

Like envelopes spread out upon a table

Let us go, through certain half rinsed out eats,

The forgotten treats

Of restless nights with Ben and Jerry bowls

And food from restaurants (or just Spaghettios)

Eats that follow with a curious scent

Of ravenous intent

To lead to an overwhelming question…

Oh, do not ask “Can I finish it?”

Let’s just call and have’m deliver it

In the sink the dishes come and go

Smelling of food from long ago.

The yellow sponge that rubs its back upon the pots’n’plates

The yellow sponge that rubs its muzzle upon the pots’n’plates

Licked its tongue into the corners of the strainer

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the suds that fall from cutlery

Slipped by the faucet, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft overhead light

Curled once about the puddles and fell asleep

In the sink the dishes come and go

Smelling of food from long ago.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow sponge that slides along the eats

Rubbing its back upon the crusted plates;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a solution for the plates that you will meet;

There will be time to scrub and time to grate,

And time for all the work of those pruny hands

That lift and drop more detergent on the plate;

Time for spoons and time for knives,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions

And for a hundred rinses and re-rinses

Before they’re ready for toast and tea

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-

(They already say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning breath, and the stains decorating my washing apron,

The smells rich and grotesque, but lessened by a simple fan-

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are buff”)

Do I dare

Disturb the kitchen sink?

In a minute there is time

For rinses and re-rinses which a single meal will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;

Have known the saucers, plates and spoons,

(I have spent my whole my morning with dirty spoons)

I know the plates when they are stacked up tall

Beneath the mugs from the living room.

So, how should I presume?

And I have known the knives already, known them all-

Knives that fix me in a dreadful gaze,

And when I am scrubbing and scorching in the sink,

Then how should I begin

To get the grrrdew off the pots and plates

And how should I presume?

And I have known the bowls already, known them all-

Bowls that are cleaned and white and bare

(But in the overhead light, traces of milk that once was there)

Is it the perfume from the trash

That makes me so digress?

Bowls that lie along a table, or wrap about a counter-top.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have washed at dusk the crusted-through eats

And watched the steam that rises from the pipes

Of the dishwasher, breezing out of the windows?...

I should have been a pair of clean sponges

Scrubbing across the remnants of old pastries.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully,

Smoothed by pruny finders,

Asleep…tired…but the dishes linger

Stretched out on the counter, there beside the faucet and sink.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have washed and cleaned, washed and dried,

Though I have cleaned all our dishes (grown slightly rusted), even our platter,

I am no prophet-and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of cleanliness flicker,

And I have seen the guests hold their plates, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

 And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

The nice porcelain, among some talk of you and me

Would it have been worthwhile

To have started the dishes with a smile,

To have squeezed the grime out of the sponge

To squeeze it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Amac, come from the sink,

Come back to tell you, and I shall tell you all:

Please rinse out your dishes so they don't stink.

That is it, that is all”

 And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worthwhile

After the casserole and the cookies and the sprinkled treats,

After the beers, after the teacups, after the drops that trail along the floor-

And this, and so much more?-

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic sponge cleans the grimy patterns off a grill:

Would it have been worthwhile

If one, rinsing a pot or wiping a pan,

And turning toward the window, should say:

 That is not it at all,

That is not how you clean, at all.”

No! I am not a Prince of Pipes, nor was meant to be;

I am an average man, one who is happy to

To fill the sink, scrub a dish or two

Advise the Plumber, “that’s grout, here, use your tool”

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, not too meticulous;

Full of brute force, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, pretty cool.

It grows mold…it grows mold

I shall wear the sleeves of my shirt rolled.

Shall I wash my hands?  Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear my washing apron, and pretend I’m on a beach.

I have dreamed of maids to wash our dishes, each and each.

I do not think they will wash for me.

I have seen them scrubing thoroughly on the plates,

Combing the white bubbles of the soap blown back

When the faucet blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sink

With dishes wreathed with pasta sauce red and brown

Till a dishwasher saves us, or we’ll frown.