Kitchen Sink

By the kitchen sink my time is lost, hovering by a random fruit fly flies by, by a hanging holiday trinket of a glass blue-eye foreground to the view of the Elmworth estate before me, a window of a world unfolding, dawn breaking beyond to the sound of traffic. Soft skin under a hot tap, on with the washing, sponge, liquid rinse and thoughts straining, mixed in the conveyor belt of doing, looking, feeling filtered water dripping corroding thoughts of my own reflections humid droplets out the corners of my strained eyes. Cutlery clattering plates brittle like cymbals, piercing the quiet morning, radio spirals through mumbling boiling kettles, swollen tea bags, woven plans of action, thin discussions on the weather or ‘did you sleep well?’ Kids in breakfast motion, buttered toast crunch, routine before school. Part-remembered dream leftovers, replenished sink, dirty bowls and plates. A finite pause, escaping the start of the day ahead. Days pass, evenings draw-on, moons wax and wane, a stolen lifetime looking down plug-holes, scouring off baked-on layers, washed down drainage pipes, let fantasy unfold so many begotten thoughts, age forgotten, tears of solitary agony suffused joy, sundrops raining through the window, imbued recollection, a veil lifted playing back impressions made, of yesterdays, revealed poverty, where words might be in unutterable matters of poetic form, soul-searching at the crude metallic altar.