Compressed Pores

Between thumb and finger, a bumpy mesh,

flattened, folded under fresh dish flesh.

Tiny holes filled with yesterday’s rinse,

a textured map, marred, intense.

Each pore a story squeezed too tight,

worn and ragged at the edges of night.

A sponge not soft, but pressed and raw,

absorbing things it never saw.

Frayed edges curl where hands compress,

a tactile truth, no more, no less.

The kitchen sighs beneath its weight,

a witness worn, indifferent fate.