Towel and Tribulations.

I spread out the cloth for the dishes to lay.
The chipped rims and faded patterns
of plates that held the sustenance
of our years, pulled from the hutch.
Once careful, I now slam them down hard.
And it feels good that way.
The sharp clink of ceramic
greater comfort than the quiet smooth edges.
I wrap the sharp and cold pieces for trash
swallowing more pride than food.