mama likes to play
accidental suction of
my little dogs tail
Is it any wonder that nobody likes vacuuming the floor,
Mention the word vacuum and there is a rush for the door.
Reading a newspaper or a woman's magazine is a dangerous occupation,
If the vacuuming has not been done.
If for the sake of long term security you are willing,
I will give you a shilling every time you find the vacuum working.
Blocked pipes are another reason that vacuuming is so time consuming,
When others on a break are laughing instead of helping.
There are so many similarities in Vacuuming,
To what others call working for a living.
Tools that are useless,
Workmates who pull their weight less.
Never enough money for a new machine,
But always enough for a fishing line.
No interest in your invention,
Of a machine with more function.
A supervisor on your case,
You can never seem to please.
So, lets make it official,
Doing the vacuuming should be rewarded more than a little.
Vacuum cleaners are pneumatic nobles,
built to cleanse our offices and homes,
sucking dust from floors and crevices
to discard in trash cans
(where dirt belongs).
What if we could also build a machine
to vacuum hate from our world
and to hurl hate into hell
(where hate belongs)?
What if it could suck base instincts
from souls of supremacists and mass shooters,
mute divisive talk shows, podcasts, and politicians,
and permanently delete dark social media posts?
From each of us, would it also siphon out
grievances, grudges, prejudices, and pain,
with torturous psychological turbulence...
but then heal us as our last dastardly
dust bunnies disappear?
To heal ourselves, our communities, our nations,
can we really assemble that marvelous machine?
Can tools of truth, justice, and love
help us to eradicate hate?
My husband is torn.
He wants a clean house.
But he loves our big puppy.
The chewingest dog in the whole dang town.
He says I guess I should vacuum.
I do not comment.
He is tired of hearing me say “why bother?”
So, I lift my feet
And tolerate the annoying drone
Which drowns out my TV show.
Ten minutes later there is snow in the living room.
At least thirty fluff balls. Buddy has chewed the heck out of something.
Football, pillow, stuffed animal, mattress, something.
My husband comes in and gives a big sigh.
“Why do I bother?” he says.
I turn the volume of my TV show up.
TINKLING HARPSICHORD
DRONING ON
LENGTHS OF
CRYSTAL
HARMONY
PAUSED
BEFORE
SUNLIGHT
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