Dishwasher

I wonder why my dishwasher gets tablets and all I get is counselling.

I sit down next to it to talk.

I tell it I think it may be overmedicated,

I tell it of my concern that its cleanliness obsession may be unhealthy.

It gives me the silent treatment, and then a passive-aggressive hum.

I tell it I think it should get out more,

try and make friends with some other major appliances.

Has it fallen out with the washing machine?

What about that thing they all used to do together with the dryer?

Unhelpful silence. A little sass from a flashing light.

I wonder aloud if it could drink less, cut down on the rinse aid.

Maybe go for a walk in the fresh air.

Could it do some more creative work? Break the cycle of filling with dirty things it feels it has to clean and ending up feeling emptied out?

Could it at least try something different, maybe in another room?

A hobby? One that doesn’t involve tablets and rinse aid.

Lastly, I try to coax it into thinking about the effect its behaviour has on others. The breakdown and foul moods, the water spilling all over the floor, the mess it leaves behind. 

Is that why it’s constantly cleaning?

It opens up with a steamy sigh. Which I suppose is progress. At least we’re talking about it now.

I get up from the kitchen floor, tell it that I’ll send it an invoice for the time and walk to work.

I decide that perhaps I shan’t walk past the bottle shop on the way home.