I’ll miss the spills and miss the clutter,
Letting crumbs fall in my butter,
Using the same spoon to serve
The entrée, salad, and hors d’oeuvre.
Although I’ve barely just begun,
This “keeping neat” does not seem fun.
To wash one’s hands is always nice,
But must I truly do it twice?
And must I really not reuse
That pot with ziti residues?
And can’t I skip the cutting board
Just one more time ‘fore dying, Lord?
I’d rather not trim every green bean
On a surface spotlessly clean.
But when you have celiac
A dirty counter might attack.
Good hygiene may be worth a try
So my intestines will not die—
But can my cooking truly sate
Without a mess I’ve helped create?
There’s one solution I can see:
A messy workspace, just. For. Me.