April Ryan | Feb 8, 2016, 6 a.m.
I clean the corners of the ceiling.
Weaving spiders sent outside reeling.
Housekeeping gives me an odd feeling.
I write my name on the cloudy coffee table,
erasing words with the rhythm of Betty Grable.
Housekeeping is not fun or a fable.
Dust bunnies roll across the hardwood floor.
I find the vacuum turning on a roar—
doing a dancehall dance from door to door.
Housekeeping is a dreaded chore.
April Ryan is a retired Seattle bus driver and prolific writer, often published in Northwest Prime Time, among other places. This poem is an excerpt from an anthology called Housekeeping, a new eBook collection of thoughts on the topic—link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01B3M4KW2.
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