A tide of water pours in,
And I scrub, scrub, scrub away culinary sins.
Under this unwanted annoyance
Lies the pleasure of pristine cleanliness,
currently provoking the need to scrub the decks of
the grease and grit and grime.
The constant scrubbing, an irritant in practice,
Now agitates my skin, as waves of detergent
sink to the bottom of these
Sick, sick, sick the of filth,
But driven by pure chagrin
To cleanse the kitchen proper
and weather this storm.
I grind my teeth and row on,
Patronised by wreckage from the night before,
Harassed by the unclean cooker,
Taunted by the tarnished plates
(all a chatter in their soiled glory)
As crumb littered worktops
reflect the wet sunlight
scarred like the plague.
It vexes me as I salvage the kitchen flotsam.
Attending to distress calls by mopping
seaweed green floors,
decanting those that fell overboard to the bin
and disposing of the crockery.
But there is no victory –
The kitchen mocks my success.
This triumph becomes distress,
exacerbated by the knowledge
I must brave the ocean and do it again.