I have known, across cities, states

and homes, a dozen or so kitchens

intimately, and within each learned

about Zen and the art of dishwashing.

I learned about staring out the 

window when one existed and

examining the pattern of the 

backsplash when one did not,

each offering their unique forms

of instruction.

I understood to count the number

of knives obscured by the soapy

water, vigilantly on-guard for 

a surprise attack from an arrant

blade or two, serrated side up

and hungry for flesh.

I grew to appreciate the gentle

cadence of a public radio announcer

– supported by listeners like me –

asking the most probing questions

and firmly redirecting when they

were pointedly not answered.

I ruminated on plans made and ideas

reconsidered, decisions advanced

and conclusions reached, all the

while scraping away the calcified

remains of the day’s sustenance.

But mostly I embraced the gift

of focus in an hour of chaos,

remembering, for example, as

the apple-scented water fills the

metal bin, the morning the planes

hit the towers and my overwhelming

need to be immersed in the most

mundane of chores, accompanied

by the tonic sounds of Coltrane’s

A Love Supreme at a jet-engine

volume, anything to wring the

last traces of normalcy from

a day that had clearly exhausted

its once-infinite supply.