Saturated

The sink is a graveyard of forks and plates.

I’m back from the double, my boots

still damp from the walk.

I reach for the sponge, that cheap yellow square,

and squeeze the gray water into the drain.

It doesn't spring back.

It stays flattened and sour in my grip,

the green scouring side peeling away

in thin, plastic flakes.

Just a wet, heavy thing

that’s given up on the shape of a cube.