The Truth About Tigers

Unloading the dishwasher, stacking plates
on top of their idle mates,
who rarely make it into the regular rotation,
I decide to count—twenty-two.

Twenty-two plates for a household of four,
with an automated dishwasher
and free child labor to load it,
stacked neatly, waiting for a banquet
that will never come.

I’m not sure I even know twenty-two people,
certainly not twenty-two I’d invite
to my home for a meal, all at once.
But should that unlikely day arrive,
I’m ready.

This must be success—
owning enough plates to feed a small army,
and not washing a single one by hand.
Welcome to the American dream, kids.