Dishes clang-rattle in the sink,
the oven, still cooling, hums along
(a low drone anchoring the dishwasher’s treble),
granola cools, crackling,
spreading baked vanilla through the house
while soldierly candlesticks
wait to be polished.
Plaintive singsonging rises from the basement –
a boy ironing his uniform –
fingers at work on keys
tap-tap-tap out their own rhythm.
Kleenex boxes need replacing
and the grocery list grows ever longer,
there is dinner to make
and, oh! the hand washing as well.
As one chore is finished,
is never quite done.