We put our dirt into a box.
\nIt comes out unnaturally clean.
\nThe work it saves \u2013 a total loss,
\nPaid to our machine.<\/p>\n
We put them in, we take them out,
\nThe dishes we wish to clean,
\nAnd shield from view and mind throughout
\nOur residue obscene.<\/p>\n
Happy the hand that holds the sponge,
\nThat struggles with dinner’s remains,
\nThat joins the plate in its soft plunge,
\nAnd from the war of time abstains.<\/p>\n
In the warm water and meandering suds,
\nThe ritual lavage flows into sea,
\nReclaims the order of the morn
\nAnd hoping dawn’s simplicity.<\/p>\n
To propitiate the gods of feckless grime
\nThe hand offers sinew and soap,
\nA somatic caesura in the war of time
\nThat measures the pulse of hope.<\/p>\n
When at last its task is done,
\nThe silver and fingers smooth and dry,
\nThough in the end nothing is won,
\nThe washing hand tells no lie.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
We put our dirt into a box. It comes out unnaturally clean. The work it saves \u2013 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, … <\/p>\n