The broom slices across the floor,Cutting a precise path through the mess,Clean swathe through the valley,Creating mounds of discarded,Clothing,Pieces,Returning slowly to their original state while,Still holding plastic memories of the night out,A strong attempt at cleaning up,A fine start.
Loose Birthday cards too,
Steal up on you,
Perched as they are atop,
from a long time ago,
On leather surfaces by
Dragging with them memories,
Sweet enough to have you sitting there,
well past that very important appointment,
With a Very Important Person,
In bed beside you now,
Like an angel,
Asleep.Wayward sock appears on top of the,Crest on theRightSmiling.Freedom has come at last.The lush valley,Though it took years,Has been traversed.The mannequin operating the broomstick,Is creating life at last,As was written,The cockroach was right.When a window is shut,Somewhere, a door will open.
-evocative short poetry-
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