Still Good

I found it under the sink between

the Comet and a bottle of something

with no label left.

I held it longer than I needed to.

The rough side was still rough.

The other had worn itself smooth

the way a year does,

that small give when you press it,

that slightly wrong smell—

dish soap and something underneath

that soap was never going to fix.

It was his, or hers by the end,

or just the kitchen's.

Nobody moved it to the trash.

Nobody said anything.

I set it back on the rack,

propped upright like it had plans,

and we all kept carrying boxes

out to her car.