Every night, I'm too tired
to get off the couch, to stagger down
the carpeted hall, to make the long journey
toward the sink.
I wash a day's worth of crumbs and residue
down the drain — feeling drained —
and I watch the water swirl quickly,
then slowly, then disappear entirely.
It's still there — but even the water
needs to go away for awhile,
to rest under the stillness and steadiness
of the cool Earth,
like a soft tongue in a warm mouth.
