Chores

Yellow plastic bags are mixed with white ones,
and I am sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor;
my hands could use some Aloe Vera lotion
now that the dishpan is secure for another day.
I'm sure there's some dust, somewhere, that
I've missed, since dust is the top of an old light bulb.
Couch pillows have a way of getting my attention;
every morning I tend them--overnight they
slouch like lazy, baby hippopotami.
Potted plants don't need my attention yet; perhaps they'll
gain a millimeter before the day is through.
I've added fluorescence--the sun will sometimes sleep.
The beige carpet retains the distinctive marks left
by vacuum cleaner wheels; throw rugs are aligned.
I've made my bed with hospital corners.
The bathroom weeps shower-curtain tears;
that doggone mirror wears dots from Dial,
deep-down and doubled, of course.
They will wait for Saturday.
Kitty-corner is ship-shape, that is until she
claws like an auger, and grains of gray
litter the no-wax tiles...                        books
                    magazines 
                                            envelopes 
    paper and more paper...   
                                                                                                       
a sponge, Bounty towels, blue Windex
with some vinegar added.
And a worn-out broom angled in the closet,
like a thin man, hungry and cold.
There are times when scrubbing bubbles meet
Murphy's oil soap, and both lay down the law.

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