delayed pleasure

There is

contentment

in standing at the kitchen sink,

pausing, 

soapy scrubby brush in one hand,

wine glass from last night's party in the other.

Last night, I didn't do the dishes right away,
as soon as the lock clicked on my red door and
I was alone again.

Last night, I went to bed right away,
looking forward to
this moment in the early morning
standing at the kitchen sink:
delayed pleasure, yes, please.

Wet hands move without thinking,
diving again into the water to find a fork.

I clean by touch and
look out the kitchen window

at how the rising sun changes
the color of the grass
ever so slightly
every few minutes

at a squirrel scurrying
around and up a tree.
Now in sunlight.  Now in shade.

Now

there is
contentment
in a routine task
in bringing order
in finding a place
for the skillet on the drying rack.