Dishes

I roll my sleeves up,

home from an errand,

before the sink.

The dish water runs

at times too hot,

at times too cold,

often barely at all.

I don't pray much

these days

but if I had to,

   I would pray for water;

   a prayer of thanks,

   to the fact

   that I can

   any time I want

   drink water

   from a faucet,

   cold, perfect water

   from a kitchen faucet.

In my hands,

cupped together,

the cool running

down the sides,

through my fingers,

   like a chalice,

   raised to my lips, 

   ready to drink,

   with thanks.

It's like a sacrament

   (but doesn't need

   transubstantiating)

its essence

already

its own.