Passing As It Does - June 15 2026

 

Passing As It Does

June 15 2026

I wash by hand.

The monotony

is a kind of meditation.

The dishes

stacked in the drainer

in orderly rows

gleaming in the kitchen lights

give me the closure I’ve been searching for

 — a chore begun and completed

in real time,

a modest act

of daily restoration.

Rubber gloves, and warm immersion

as steam rises up,

hot water

and a froth of suds

 — cheery bubbles

that rainbow light

from their slick little surfaces.

Crusted food sluices off,

creamy porcelain glistens.

Repeated, night after night

like a secular ritual,

dirty dishes

ticking down

like a telltale clock.

Marking time 

as the middle of life

slips through my fingers

almost imperceptibly.

Time, passing as it does.

And only once

interrupting my reverie

with a loud burst of sound

as it shatters on the floor.

A million jagged pieces

nothing can restore. 

I’m not sure if the abrupt turn that ends the poem is properly foreshadowed. A change in tone like this can come off as cheating:  setting up the reader only to blindside her with an unjustified emotional wallop.  

On the other hand, isn’t that what a dropped dish does:  make you jump with sudden surprise? 

Actually, the ending surprised me as I wrote it. Not only does it feel like taking dictation when the words are flowing, it can feel as if the poem is writing itself.