Household Chores

Only a pervert would love to iron,

so I do all mine when everyone’s asleep.

I unbutton my skin, which I’ve worn too long,

and lay it on the board. A lacy mist of spray starch

makes me look ten years younger.

After dinner, the dishes gleam like glaciers in the sink.

Whitewater cascades down the drain.

I sift fossils and fish through my fingers

and splash like a drowning man

until even my socks are drenched.

On Wednesday I take out the trash.

Fog is lifting from the street. When the trucks come,

a sweet and sour stench will be removed;

the remains of the last seven days will be removed.

The neighborhood will sigh, and begin again.

At least once a month there’s a good thorough cleaning.

Reaching into the uneasy darkness beneath the couch

for my cat’s toy, first the fingers

then the forearm, pushing aside the grit and dust,

belly to the floor I understand where I live.

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