My fiancé moves from
room to room
casting shadows behind him
as the sun plays softly with
his dark, black hair and pale face…
The vacuum hums loudly
and the wire, which drapes from
his hand, claps the side of
our bedroom furniture.
It is a simple hello.
The machine—
with its back and forth movement—
scoops up the tiny fragments and dust particles of
our week
and so the red box on the rug
becomes more red
and the purple box on the rug
becomes more purple
and the sadness that was
quickly becoming all pervading
has been lifted into
a solitary bag
which hides the mess
we’ve created with our minds.
And thus the soul feels
anew
with the Sunday cleanup
we defiantly, habitually call
“chores”.
nightshiftsister 