It was never about the dish.
It was about the eleven years of dishes
and who had counted them, and who had not.
We stood on opposite sides of the counter
like two countries with a treaty
neither one had read that morning.
Then you laughed at something I did not say
and the border went soft,
and I dried the dish, and you put it away,
in the wrong cupboard, on purpose.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
