i noticed that we don't actually clean
as well as we'd like to think we do, that the baseboard
looks like a skid plate, and that a few more amps
for the vacuum might serve us well.

i thought about writing this poem and how
a change of perspective is supposed to foster
new and perhaps feverish writing
about love, or about rectifying some terrible wrong.

but nothing like that happened.
i found very little time for anything but avoiding feet, chair legs, the crack down of the security gate,
as I reached for all the fun things pushed to the
center of the table.

i also couldn't help but notice the curious things
that rain down from those walking, little flecks of ash,
dying hairs, bitches, complaints, and painful words
that shouldn't be left laying around to be picked up
by anyone, particularly the kids.