Dumbwaiter spirit

In the rush, dishes pile up.

A smiling woman who may be missing a tooth furrows her brow in the eagerness to please as I am jammed full of dirty porcelain and slobbery table scraps.

The world is hungry

and my poor mechanisms cannot keep up with its gluttony.

I am as full and as heavy as the room where intelligence could not mask anger--

heaping plates of history and names my palate has not adjusted to

taste like salt and slime and rust--

I cannot swallow it all.

Pakistan Afghanistan India America Britain

Blame Blame Blame

Hate Hate Hate

Money.

A small voice goes unanswered:

"WHat can we do? Is there hope?"

The silent response is the heaviest dish of all.

It is getting hotter in here,

someone has turned on the sun.

I peel off hazy flakes of skin,

the guilt for taking a dirty dish and polishing it with pretty words.

Dramatic Pose: "I haven't suffered enough!"

Even success weighs on me.

And so I wait.

"What for?" Gogo asks.

But I am dumb.

I have no name to speak and console his anxious, hungry, tired self.

I wait

for an invisible hand to pull my straining ropes,

and lower me to a depth I have not been before

that I may be relieved

and the dishes cleaned

So both are fit to serve again.