March 31

Though we wrestle hand and fist
over each annoyance, mess and paw-print,
who allowed, again, the muddy feet

of puppies past the door untoweled,
who will vacuum hair as penance
and who is better cleaning messes…

When the house is silent, swept
away on some excursion, fighting
tumbling weeds of fur’s preferred

to stillness soiling nothing. Clean and
needing not a scrap of work
our house is empty, soulless, cold.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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