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<title>When I’m sorry I wash dishes | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">When I’m sorry I wash dishes</h1>
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<p>Your casserole dish takes the longest:<br />it has some baked-in crust from when you<br />cooked chicken last night. Washing it<br />allows me to think about this poem’s title<br />and the first few lines. Now that I’ve<br />written them down, I’ve <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">forgotten the rest</a>.</p>
<p>While scraping at something with my finger-<br />nail, I catch myself wondering again whether<br />you’ll thank me for washing your dishes.<br />I realize that this would defeat the point<br />of my gesture, that this has destroyed<br />all good thoughts I’ve had about saying</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.” This, <a href="http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1703/">this is the reason</a> why<br />I am always apologizing: because I never<br />mean it, because there is always, in <a href="real-writer.html">some<br />attic</a>, a thought roaming that says, insists:<br /> “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I deserve<br />all I can take, and more than that.”</p>
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