these plates

they were all once
new, but i'm finding
more cracked dishes on
the shelf. i have
no one to blame this
on, but me. the
son is away at school,
the dog is running
free in his version
of heaven, so it can
be only me who is
chipping and cracking
the dinner plates. i
rub my finger along
the rough edge of
porcelain and shake
my head. i don't know
what goes on behind
the closed door of
the dishwasher.
i never see the pieces,
i never seem to
hear it when they
break, but it doesn't
stop me from putting
them neatly away.
after all they still
shine. i can't help
but feel that it's an
extension of me, these
plates, although i'm
probably wrong. not
everything holds meaning.