A letter
warning of a imminent  
house inspection
makes me sad.
Not because
there is much to do,
just a slight sprucing
up of nooks
and a polish of taps.
It’s because the last time I sought to make everything gleam
you were coming to visit
and the wish for pristine
wasn’t to pass a test;
every second of dusting brought you closer,
scrubbing ticking down to you;
the mundane becoming magnificent.
There was sparkle everywhere
when you arrived.