If not the gnat then the horsefly
keeps the company at my side in the tall hours of the afternoon:
one born of future’s fancy;
one sprung from past’s prudence;
one buzzing, another biting; —
The swatter swoops and swings
dervish-like or simply flailing about
if the honest word should reject all lyricism
or peer through my window
to see the sorry scene of self-inflicted,
self-serving disenchantment
among the “premium” posters, the potted plants,
the freshly made bed with the quilt pulled taut,
the blinds pulled wide, the baseboards scrubbed clean,
the clothes collected up and put away
and all those things
the therapist said would do me good.
And they did,
but every win on one front
precludes a loss on another:
thus every wrinkle smoothed out
invites a dirty dish to the kitchen;
every rinsed plate conspires with
a bit of dust on the floor;
the vrooming vacuum provides cover
for hair to invade the bathroom sink;
the wiping of which distracts from
the wilting plants, who when watered
thank me with a boxful of mail
that needs sorting —
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