Susan Jo Russell: After Going to Bed Mad

In the morning the dishes wait,
no dirtier than the night before.
As far as I can tell, they’re not
discontent, only a bit crustier,

piled in the sink helter-skelter
as I left them, leftovers floating
in the tepid grease-skimmed water.
In my hands they tolerate

the harsh scrubbing sponge. The water, hot
as I can stand, streams off
as I slide them into the drainer’s slots.
Chastened and gleaming,

they lean together
like the old companions that they are.

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