A slop of milk in a cereal bowl
a red plastic bowl ten years old
the milk four hours warm 
and the sheen of it

the lazy sheen
of the milk in the bowl on the table
is the pearl of great price
for which everything was sold. 

With dedication and daily toil
I could move the bowl without touching it
watch that moon of milk gently eclipse
down the plughole.

What a remarkable feat of the mind it would be and how worthless
to have that bowl rinse itself spin through the air and land
in the little low cupboard a child can reach I repeat how worthless how 
unnecessary how disruptive of family life to nag when I, mum, could just

wash it and put it away