Dirty sock – hanging
lifeless from the hamper rail,
redolent of touch football
on the lawn,
or perhaps the laziness
of an 11 year old boy,
scrabbling in the empty
recess of the second drawer.
Greasy dishes – strewn
like the victims of a trainwreck,
no survivors,
just the odd fry stuck spearlike
in congealed Heinz,
that called too soft for 911,
now headed for the Inglis morgue
or Curly-Kate.
Dust bunnies – floating
like paratroopers assaulting
a beachhead on the mantle,
cagey – swinging left to right,
to avoid the Hoover vortex,
or swatted by the cat, in jest,
lying, idly bored and waiting,
for Tender Vittles.
Why did I call this Lightkeeper?
you ask bemused, wondering,
if perhaps MOCC was MOCCing you,
or just lost his marbles;
no just the dust, the mundane,
catching up to me on a hot day,
tossing my mouse at the wall,
dam image map!
I could be a lightkeeper,
on some craggy rock – windswept,
listening to the crackle
in the ether during storms,
or hunting for Willard
on my day off – perhaps;
But there are dishes at my lighthouse,
and no Walmart to buy clean socks.
ml’98
(for all of us who wanted to run away to the circus but settled for piano lessons)