Immaculate,
save for that peach ring around my drain.
My mother washes our apples in bleach,
one to ten,
like ingested camp dishes.
Bananas come wrapped in peels,
come wrapped in Saran Wrap, and
carrots come in nothing at all.
Clean,
save for that beige crust on my plate,
sent through the dishwasher
four times now.
(These problems solve themselves.)
And a garbage disposal that has been
clogged for three months;
I am too afraid to tell my landlord
so it spits up scraps.
I spit up scraps.
Two two-way streets,
unlisted,
under-cleaned,
overused.
