The nature of things
in the cold they cannot hear
the near human groan of the pipes,
tap water courses through
the veins of the house,
and nothing comes clean and
nothing makes sense and only
the dirt gathers interests
‘though there’s nothing engaging
about it, it’s a revolution on kitchen floors
with scuffed, slippery tile when trips
to the coffee maker
are spasms of what won’t
get done in a hurry or at all
lest the world conclude its business
and the crisp spring air cascades
through the house in swirls
like lithe, perfumed lace,through the screen door
that slides no more
and is always ajar
when a door is not room you can’t
walk into (say “mush) ,
getting sentimental over dishes and knives, forks and orts
as they are beheld months before
you’ll seen them again
as the layer of grime
that is gelled and congealed
on the tile floor
that contains generations of
dirt and dust, smashed ants,
notes to the milk man, indentations
from the heels of leather shoes
and sneakers, that bald remainder
that things get-dirty again
no matter how hard you
press your knees to the floor,
amazing, isn’t,
how utterly strange
that scrubbing pad feels in your hand,
trails of dull, lute warn water
running up your wrist
to your elbow,
where the water
gathers in
a pool that defies gravity
until the weight is too much
and it must let go
one drip at a time?
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