Clean Plate

 

I had a plate of baking soda

in my living room, to cut down

on the stink of cigarette smoke.

I smoked a lot. A lot.

30 years of smoking,

nonstop. Unencumbered.

Before the great smoking

pariah, before the exile to

the exterior of everything.

And once the great smokers

purge began, I still didn’t quit,

because, up yours, that’s why.

So I continued, in my apartment,

smoking...forever. 

Until recently, 

I stopped smoking. 

Stopped.

Because Quit is a quitters

word. I stopped. Quitters,

they quit, but stoppers 

stop. 

It’s a hairline difference but

substantial.

So I said, “Hero plate of

baking soda, thank you for 

absorbing all these smells, 

if you did anything at all.”

I took the plate to the kitchen.

I dumped the baking soda

into the trash and then turned

to the sink to wash the plate.

I turned the water on and the plate

said, “I’m no hero”. 

“What,” I said.

“I’m no hero. I’m just a plate,

just wash me off and let me

dry,” said the plate. 

“Shhiitttt….,” I said. 

I washed it off,

wiped with a sponge,

dried with a towel. 

And it never said another word.