The sink is full of gray soapy water

The sink is full of gray, soapy water.

The funeral ended hours ago,

leaving the counter crowded with ghosts—

plastic lids that don't fit,

bowls of potato salad gone warm and yellow.

I scrub at a stubborn crust of cheese

on a glass dish that isn't mine.

I flip it over to dry and see the blue tape,

the name 'Miller' written in a Sharpie

that was running out of ink.

I don't know who Miller is,

but I'm holding their dinner in my hands.