The house is quiet except for water
collecting in the sink. It is
as easy as breathing — turning
the faucet on and off.
I don’t want to go outside today.
Instead, I build lakes in dirty coffee cups, form
snow out of foamy bubbles.
Nothing is cleaned but my hands, more
pink and tender now
than when I woke and thought of you
and the time we washed my car.
The run-off escaped in little streams to dry-up
somewhere secret and I was
so content, then,
I didn’t even think
to wonder where it went.