A bin for dirty dishes

Twenty-five years ago, 

I set marker to bin to notify said Karen

that she had her dishes, and she had to do them.

Or eat from the pot.

No more leaving dishes for her bedraggled 

mother, just in from work, a commute, a quick shop,

cooking, collapsing.

I still have that dishpan, aphids currently floating

peacefully on the surface of the water,

having been squished off the stem of a milkweed

waiting to be planted.  

I'm thinking of relabeling it "Stephen's dirty dishes"

and to be fair, I'll have my own.