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.