Seeking Comfort
April 2 2009


Doing dishes
and other rituals
of daily living.
The rubber gloves, the frothy suds, the squeaky sponge
the heat you love,
soothing your hands, in winter.
Drifting-off
into reverie.

Or ironing
as the path to serenity —
the back and forth,
the familiar board,
the smell
of singed cotton and steam.
The satisfaction of shirts
in orderly rows,
stiff
and sharply creased.
Because denial works.
And the illusion of control
is comforting,
when life has caught you blind-side.

Or the dog,
scratching at the door
barking.
He delights in the moment,
following his nose
thrilled by every odour.
This is his entire universe —
you, at the other end,
his weight against your leg
reassuringly;
laser-focused
on this exact scent,
no worries about the next.
The perpetual now
where every dog exists.
And you would love
to follow.