Hotpoint

You spare me the worst of
dishpan hands. I suspect you are
ancient. From my daughter’s bed,
through the wall, you sound like
a motorboat plying Lake Michigan,
heard from a big white porch
as the sun sets — the hour of
Vernors and distant dinner
preparations, when I was
younger and didn’t have to
help with dinner, or with dishes,
or feel guilty for not helping.
When I was younger, and I
didn’t know you yet.

 

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 7. The prompt was to write a love poem to an inanimate object.

 

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