I see spring cleaning
accruing each day
like interest,
marks about the wall,
dust on the underside
of the shelves,
details I leave untended,
catching up with me
like a hoard of thieves
out to get the last
of what I have.

They say it is important
we do everything ourselves,
learn to repair the car,
patch the roof, prune the trees.
But frankly I’d like some help
and I don’t care where it comes
from, just anything to slow
the sense of slipping backwards,
the rattle in my head of undone
chores.
Oh yes, the trees need trimming,
the doors sanding,
the floors a coat of sealer,
the house, the deck
the same.
I made him a list
of the things
he was to do.
Finally, I attached it
to my own file cabinet,
magnetized
as though I needed to,
as though any work
didn’t stick to me,
the way the Mexican poet
said the Mexican bed bugs
always bit him,
because they know
what belongs to them.

2/2/99