This dirty plate keeps returning, like the phoenix, in new incarnations of crusty cheese and dried-on syrup. Not like the socks mysteriously vanished into that other, wash-and-wear dimension, where the denizens of a million dryers finally fulfill their sock-y destiny. The dust I banished yesterday is back, with reinforcements, and one Ritz, consumed, miraculously yields up ten crackers’ worth of crumbs, like the leftovers at Jesus’ picnic. Keeping house withers my sense of accomplishment.
Not like keeping children. Through them, I become a brush in the Artist’s hand, and each of them a masterpiece.
A streak-free shine counts for nothing.