Scrubbing my house for the third time today:
I wonder, 'is there poetry in this?'
'Where is the source of this mess?'
'Does my cleaning spray contain iambic pentameter?'
I would not hear it anyway:
I am tone deaf.

My soul: full of anger, as I consider a place with no
working, rushing, planning, cleaning, 
only the meanings of words to meander through.
Dorian Grey comes to mind, all grace,
his horror of a face locked away, until the day:
his corpse mirrored his soul.

I identify with Nathaniel Hawthorn's Hester Prynne:
a woman in love, protecting her man, her unborn child,
all the sacrifice to protect a legacy,
lines engraved upon her face 
the cost of membership.

I wish I spent my days at University amidst the ghosts of:
Po, Dickinson, Joyce, Keats, Ginsberg, Kerouac.
Oh how romantic: writing poetry, learning lines, studying the greats!

But today, today there is no time for that:
children are crying, 
collectors at the door,
potatoes need peeling,
dust mites are calling.

L.J. Siewerth


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