Almost Enough

Run hot water
into suds at the kitchen sink
and let the sponge
come clean
as you squeeze it
between thoughts,
fresh heat
to scour spaghetti and sauce
from the usual white and blue
pattern; the caked-on remnants
of joy over dinner.

This mindless place.
This simple chore
of loving the souls
who sat around the table
to say a few words
about the day
is enough.

Your reflection
in the black window
is weary
at the hour
when night walks in
the door.

This presence,
this welcome darkness,

this companion of not knowing
what comes next,

is always
almost enough.