In the night I have dishes to wash.
Not dishes, but glasses, mostly goblets.
A sinkful of glass, so many of them that
I miss my ride, from a friend I worked for
but who fired me, plus another who once
said I lied when I didn’t. When I wake
I see I have had a dream about resentments,
the cousins who were unkind, the ally who
reverted to an old old pattern where he wants
to ruin whomever he admires. Here I have
been told to let light in again. The container
itself is still okay, it’s only what sticks
to the sides that turns it sour. Forgiveness,
like water, runs free. And who wouldn’t
rather fill again with the really fine wine.