To A Scrubbing Pad On Its Last Day

All right, then. I'm bringing you back from the ceramic cup for a special job. You came to us fresh, clean, and ready to work. I remember. You were going to clean the world with your yellow sponge side and your green Scotchbrite scrub layer. You went right to work on the day-to-day work, and sanitized with little effort, and I always rinsed you out carefully and put you back in your optimal spot by the tap. 

Time went by, and yes, there was a limit to how much even careful procedure and aftercare could do to prevent your yellow side from slowly greying and the green side from gradually congealing, all due to the grease that seems to be everywhere. You were finally retired with honor after your excellent work, and put in the cup for the occasional stove top or counter problem, and you were just right for that job as well.

But today, you have a final job, one that you won't come back from. It's inevitable that we are all temporary here, even the plates and knives and people using them, and today you will serve your employers once more in cleaning the trash receptacle itself, which deserves to be at least occasionally in a state of apparent non-repugnance. It's temporary, too. 

With your help, the garbage can will be briefly a representation of its original shade of white, plausibly newish and unwrecked. More, you're giving it an inside cleaning of the lid that it hasn't had in many cycles. Thank you for that.

In a few moments, assuming I forget to run you around the floor in this corner first, I'll deposit you in the trash and put this now-cleaner lid back over it. I do this with respect, and sorrow, and even a twinge of a physical sensation on the same spectrum as discomfort and pain. 

Well done. 

Thank you.

Goodbye.

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