I stand before a sink filled with dishes
from last night's teenage heartbreak party
daydreaming about quitting my job
because poetry and survival
don't dance in the same hall.
I may not change the world but I can
recover one disappointment at a time, clean-slate
the kitchen so those who pass through
can get well, get better, pull through.
The girls have discovered betrayal
can be cut into perfect stars, doctored
with pieces of chopped M&Ms,
a plate of brownies offered to the Gods
of resilience. O' open mouth
of the sink, if every third word
were a prayer, if rags over the butcher block
were saturated in prayer, then the quiet
of this morning's ritual is my masterpiece.
