Dear Diary #10

By Marty Lloyd Woldman

I am dishwasher. I breathe the fumes of foamy mess. I heave the pots from sink to sink with meteoric method.

The voice in my head takes on the growl of Tom O’bedlam. At least it is not a shriek. Nor an incomprehensible mumble. I don’t think i could bear it if the voice went all the way gone. Oh what horror to be abandoned by even he. He shall stay and sound like Tom and all will seem well in the soapy murk of living.

I am a God at the sink. Take my advice. Never tell a man he is not a god, nor a woman she is not a goddess. Chances are are you’re insulting a deity and you don’t want that on your spreadsheet.

I am God of Dish. Master of all, clean and unclean, broken or whole. They are all my children and I serve them like treasure. There is no wickedness here. Only tarnished gleam.

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