The Wounds Of A Dishwasher

 How could such a simple chore,

Escalate into a war?

Whines, whimpers and well-reasoned pitches,

Was Sis or I forced to do the dishes?

Not hours and hours breaking our backs,

Just loading them into dishwasher racks.

Scarred I was; I’d learned to hate,

Washing and loading pots, cups and plates.

In my first marriage, might I mention,

Dishes became more than a point of contention.

Her every need stirred with bent of lies,

Wished I’d do that which I did despise.

It so inflamed her every nerve,

Soaping ceramics was not the way that I served.

My dearest one-we've walked 'along side,'

Our rings scriven from Princess Bride.

That travel mug with rings of pink,

Sits unwashed next to the sink.

You rise with the sun, Oh heavy toll,

Not much left in tank, barely in soul.

Might Westley have meant; in his "As you wishes,"

That he would gladly do the dishes?