Winter White

Saturday In Winter I Come Clean



I poem through morning till noonish,
when dishful sink speaks
of a waterfall rinse
and throw rug corner-curls up
like a cat near fire,

her peaceful rise and fall of fur
thicker in the winter.
Floor of hardwood,
with its mismatched grains
showing yet not telling

the years avoiding fire,
creaks of moisture pull
as dust bunnies hop away
from me into corners
hoping to stay unseen and grow.

If I choose, I can etch-a-sketch
stick people on the tables
dancing around a summer bonfire
before rag erasing the dust and lint
raised by stomped feet.

Environmental disasters aside,
power cells crave a recharge,
to pillow my head
and nothing but breathe
if only but an hour.

Then comes the end of light,
where week’s work wakes
trying to remember
what it’s like to be alive
on the outside.