“Black Dishes at a Yard Sale”
The dishes covered the table in a stack
Among the other detritus
Of young married life in a smallish den
Long since left behind.
The platters, bowls, and saucers black,
A hue once thought elegant,
But since found to possess a quality
The couple found unsightly.
“Five dollars for all, including that rack.
We just don’t use them anymore.
They show the dirt, and we can’t have that
So now, our dishes are white”
The couple had learned along their track
The secret to long-wedded bliss:
If you can’t see the dirt, then it’s not there.
Black dishes are for divorcées.
©2014 Bill LaBrie