Most people slide
snugly
through like columns
in a counter.
She drops
them in sorting
silverware,
stacking plates.
They spin
like clothes
in a glass-doored dryer,
then teeter
atop the others
before settling
slowly,
uniformly.
A few refuse
to fit.
Oddly patterned,
too thick or too thin,
they bypass
the spin cycle,
clunk
in the return slot.
She scoops
them out, rests
them in her palm.
Sometimes, a hint
of color or texture
grabs her,
and she drops
her sponge
to look closer.
Or a glimmer
of sparkle
tempts her to scrubs,
exposes ridges
and crevices.
Others stagnate
in the chambers
like dust
behind the fridge,
under the microwave.
When she's low,
she sorts,
slips them across
the table
into her hand
one
at a
time.
Sometimes, one sticks
to her finger,
and she looks closer,
starts to rub,
finds brilliance
under the scum.
In time some turn
inside out.
Alive.
Real and raw.
Copyright © Jo R. Hawke. All rights reserved.
