Why you shouldn’t clean.

Feeling faint and sick as a tree
Tossed and turned in a torment sea.
Sweeping, swashing, water sloshing
Until I stoop to lean 
Upon a couchy beam.

A pile of wrapping
A pile of snapping
Plastic, papers
Ruins of capers
All amound 
The centered ground.

Mind addressing
Body’s need to sit and sigh.

Body nests
Body rests
Mind watches the pile of dust shift by.


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Filed under All Poetry, General Poems

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