Once

The sink’s full of gray water. Suds gone. Cold.
The handle of a pot, thrust in sideways,
Sticks out like a drowning man’s arm. The old
Nickel faucet drips. Slowly, slowly . .. Rays
Of concentric circles emerge and fade,
Passing over things that glimmer beneath
The surface. Coffee cups. Greasy bowls laid
One on top of the other. Forks like teeth
Standing tine side up in a mug. A vase
Whose rim just touches the top. Like a dot.
Or a circle drowned away. The sink was
White once. Empty once. But, “once” isn’t what
Gets dirty dishes done. “Once” files away
A memory. Wet dishes sit for days.