He saw her face clearly
in every knife he polished,
distorted in spoons,
split by forks.
He heard her whispers escaping with the great
exhalations of steam from the dish machine.
He stood and dreamed that she would send
an "I love you"
slowly spelled out in saucers
and bread plates
rattling down
the washer's conveyor belt.
Instead,
the dishes marched on
in their steady rows of three,
the steam sneaked through vents,
and the silverware only reflected
the flicker of florescent light.
