An ode to dirty dishes

(Not my kitchen.)

I'm sure it could be worse
I don't mean to complain
But the dishes in the sink
are frankly just a bane.

They're always there, just staring back
From where they're perched beside.
The sink is stacked, nowhere to pack
another bowl inside.

I realize this is trivial
(In the grand scheme of my day)
But they taunt me, unequivocal,
"No prob, we're here to stay!"

What's the use of washing up?
I know they'll just be more!
The forks, the spoons, the bloody cups,
about to spill down to the floor.

I bought more flatware at IKEA.
Thinking, "Surely! This will help.
Instead of washing every day,
I'll have extra on the shelf."

Thwarted! I've decided,
That word describes my troubles.
More dishes mean a brief reprieve,
But in the end it's double.

Another podcast streaming,
— careful not to drop the phone! —
Moth, Radio Lab, and Serial,
At least I'm not alone.

The foods that stick to dishes
should be ranked from gross to bleak.
Turns out yolk dried on the side
Could soak easily for a week.

The sponge has gone from white to gray
The water's quite opaque.
The soap has gummed right over
I'd squeeze harder, but my hands ache.

Neither can I claim
A machine would do the trick.
Before the move, stacked pots and pans
Mostly likely made guests sick.

The irony in all of this
is obvious for some:
If I'd washed them before writing this,
I'd already be done!