The kitchen is dark just the light on the range

The kitchen is dark, just the light on the range.

Everything here feels heavy and strange.

I squeeze the yellow foam in my grip,

watching the dirty gray droplets drip.

The pores are all full of the fat and the soap.

It’s hard to find any real reason for hope.

The house is so quiet it hurts in my ears.

I’m washing the plates and I’m counting the years.