Same Dirty Dishes
Here they are again—the same dirty dishes.
I wonder what’s the use.
Everyone leaves the work to me.
There’s really no excuse.
Sometimes I think it’s more than I can bear.
It happens every day—
Make beds, wash dishes, clean the house,
Wash and fold clothes,
Jim goes to work,
Bess leaves her room a mess,
Jason goes out to play.
I go back to the same routine.
The housework must be done again.
How can I win?
Does anyone really care?
There goes the phone. Who can be calling?
Oh, it’s Jim wanting his suit pressed
For an important meeting coming up.
He tells me that having me to depend on,
He is especially blessed.
But I wonder—does he really care?
What is Jason screaming about?
I’ll run outside and see.
Bless his heart, he fell off his tricycle
And skinned his little knee.
Of course I rescue him
And kiss away his tears,
Hug him to my breast
And make it all better
Band-Aids, more Band-Aids.
He gave me that hurt puppy look,
And hobbled to his room.
I go back to the dishes,
And later iron Jim’s suit.
Life goes on—I’m needed, and I’m glad.
Copyright © James Tate | Year Posted 2016
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