Cold Oven

The party died out around midnight

leaving a scent of cheap beer and clove.

I’m the only one left with a sponge,

prying the dinner plates out of the oven.

She hid them there to make the counters look clean.

Now the pork fat has turned to a white,

opaque skin over the porcelain.

I scrub until my cuticles go soft.

Inside the cabinet door, the conversion chart

is held up by tape that has yellowed to amber.

I don't know why I’m still here,

looking at how many tablespoons make a cup,

while the rest of the house is sleeping.