We put our dirt into a box.
It comes out unnaturally clean.
The work it saves – a total loss,
Paid to our machine.
We put them in, we take them out,
The dishes we wish to clean,
And shield from view and mind throughout
Our residue obscene.
Happy the hand that holds the sponge,
That struggles with dinner’s remains,
That joins the plate in its soft plunge,
And from the war of time abstains.
In the warm water and meandering suds,
The ritual lavage flows into sea,
Reclaims the order of the morn
And hoping dawn’s simplicity.
To propitiate the gods of feckless grime
The hand offers sinew and soap,
A somatic caesura in the war of time
That measures the pulse of hope.
When at last its task is done,
The silver and fingers smooth and dry,
Though in the end nothing is won,
The washing hand tells no lie.