I watch my father lose his father.
Toast crunched, tea drunk,
we unload the dishwasher.
Crouched by him, I gather
serving spoons with silver tongues,
he is losing his father.
Stacking things in order,
flasks at the back, China cups in front.
I pull out the bottom drawer.
A puddle of water,
shaped like a lung.
Black tar in his father.
He wonders why it isn’t stronger,
are the wires overstrung?
I shut the door of the dishwasher.
Honestly, why bother?
With every crumb, our effort undone.
Father pays to drain his father,
I scatter salt in the dishwasher.