Rough End of the Sponge by Owen Townend

 

There's a little red mark on the cooker,

days old

                                    dried-on,

I can tell that it's yours -

a scourge of ill-made rouge.

 

There's a sticky puddle running by the sink

            fair tint

                                    foul scent,

It’s the dampest of enigmas

untouched by tidy manners.

 

There's a shard of crockery on the carpet

sharp blue

                                    stained tip,

once upon a time a bowl

now your bloody handiwork.

 

That used straw you left on the table

was the last.