Suds’ Law
I’ve often thought there’s something zen about the washing-up,
Of the rhythm of the saucepan and cycle of the cup,
Of plunging-in all dirty and pulling-out so clean,
Of the slight-self-satisfaction of using no machine.
The sculpting of the bubbles and the water steaming-hot,
Of the stray spoon in the bottom and the ring beneath the pot,
Of never glancing sideways at the mountain yet to come,
But only at the plate between our finger and our thumb.
A swirl until it’s squeaking sees its spotlessness restored,
As it’s stacked into a stoic jenga on the draining-board,
Then polished and re-housed once more – or left to drip and dry,
Till the water streaks the glasses and the runoffs calcify.
Splashes on our shirt-fronts, splashes on the floor,
Till the water’s grey and tepid, and we fill the bowl once more.
Yes, the art of washing-up is quite humble in its zen –
And come back after dinner, we can do it all agen…
Rhyming Couplets 