STOPPING BY SHARED KITCHENS ON A SUMMER EVENING
Whose plates these are I think I know.
They’ve left them here and scarpered though;
They will not see me stopping here
To watch some new mold cultures grow.
I must admit I think it queer
That they should cook, then disappear,
A pile of dishes in their wake
To wash, perhaps, some other year.
I give my head a mournful shake
And wonder if by some mistake
They thought to clean and wash and sweep
Was someone else’s job to take.
I’d love to leave mine in a heap.
But I have promises to keep,
And pots to wash before I sleep,
And pots to wash before I sleep.
- Robert Frosted