April Poem 2.8

In deference to taste, I’ve self-censored this.

“Dear God, No!”

They sit there.
Piled.
Crusts of egg facing me
the morning ritual.
The dishpan hands
The milk solidified
Baby formula stench
at unrinsed bottles
and so I just say

Author: Matthew

A father, son, husband, and fairly rad dude.

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