Here comes some fun: got the hundred yen dust
pan with the bristle brush wires, scratching.
On the floor dogeza style, hand circling
an orange mitt, scrubbing off every missed
glance, every misstep, every misspoken word
and every broken relationship. My back's in it
now and I'm sweating, sweeping clear the years
on a Saturday afternoon, preparing for move-out
day, steadying, readying to do what people
say they do when in truth everything stays
with you. By five the sun is down and I
in my slippers and cheap convenience store
tee settle down, crack open a Yebisu, listen
to the blackbirds chirp memories, drink in
the solitude of the newfound darkness.
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