Heritage Sponges
At least once a month
the stench from my kitchen
sponge gets so bad I refuse
one more soap saturation
of this primitive sessile.
Why is it that I can’t toss
these replicas of marine life,
amongst the simplest animal form,
free of tissues, muscles, nerves
and internal organs? After all,
during the course of one day I toss out
all sorts of rubbish—paper towels,
chicken bones, cheese rind, empty cartons,
newspapers and rotten fruit, but have developed
a deep attachment with this soggy, smelly
two-dollar purchase. I take it into my hands
and scan it, as if looking for the spot
of defending stench or to hear the ocean
from where it came. Finally, I decide
to toss the thing into the dishwasher
with my daily load, to keep it vital
a little longer, perhaps a day or a week
or at least until I’m able to establish a degree
of separation from this rectangular block.
My only explanation for this drama
is my daughter is a vegetarian and animal rights’
activist, and like her, I want to save all creatures.
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