To put away the dishes in a stranger’s house
Imagining a natural order to things:
Forks, knives, spoons or
Forks, spoons, knives
But almost always forks first
I’m insane for the order that abjures chaos (these days)
So your plate stack comforts me
Because it is like my grandmother’s or
Not like my ancient lover’s or
Somewhat like the way that I would do it
how much can you improvise with a plate?
A kookaburra counterpoints the traffic
There is a light percussion of a housemate’s morning routine
Scattered music, unprintable silence
I try not to ruin the joy of being alive
By thinking I should do something with it
