Waltzing With Dishes

You dry, she said,
as if dishes were wishes,
and that was enough to enthral
me with this earn your own keep,
horrible, chore-ible
sort of stuff.
And so I dried,
but in a misery-boots
sort of huff ‘cause what I kinda
wanted to do was play
in a swervy,
sort of way
with all those bubbles that turned
greasy, grubby dishes to squeaky clean.
But what I really,
really, really wanted
was to wear those long,
luscious, pink rubber gloves;
they were like Cinderella’s slippers,
but for waltzing with dishes.

Written for Poetic Bloomings Prompt # 77: It’s A Chore

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