Dishes

  by Kevin Miller


Mornings while she sleeps
he empties the sink, fills it 
with soap and hot water, 
starts coffee, washes
dinner plates and glasses,
soaks the silverware
in the rice pan, each move
amplified as if all the house
leans to the sound of forks 
set on a plate, a cupboard
closing. This day, he finds 
a new sponge near the faucet, 
and as he scrubs pesto from a bowl, 
he thinks of the President, 
and though he has no envy,
he wonders when the last time
the Commander in Chief knew
dishwater up to his wrists,
felt the inside edge of a bowl 
come clean in his hands.