I enjoy washing the dishes.
I pretend the tablespoons are battleships
and that I’m giving my hands a bubble bath.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I pretend the plates are my babies
and I’m cleaning a weekend adventure off them.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I like that it forces me to be on my own for a while.
I like that it slows me down, makes me feel useful.
I look out at the bus stop opposite my flat while I scrub
and wonder if the combination of a waist-high
windowsill and a first floor kitchen
makes it look like I’m masturbating to passersby.

© Carl Burkitt 2020