When I was doing the washing up

it struck me that my wife retained

an affection for plates with faded

designs from thirty-five years ago,

a plastic spoon worn half away

from stirring sauces in hot pans,

a carving knife whose broken handle

makes it uncomfortable to manage,

and that old pot that’s blacker than

the kettle or the frying pan.

I found it touching she displayed

an attachment to familiar objects,

those that had seen far better days

and could with reason be discarded.

And then, of course, there’s me.