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