Some its said have an aversion to domestic
chores. Its effect rubs away relationships,
after cleaning, slumpt in a heap I am good
for nothing.

Magazines try to advise befriending
the routine. Check in when you begin, allow
the mind to wander and reflect.

Those uneasy decions years since -
let them go. Remember it’s not
a quake. Afterall it’s only an

after shock so there shoud be
no ill effects. This bouncing around
itches my bleached flesh

on my arm pock marks glisten like a
gritty saucepan bottom. Standing at
the sink, dripping from scuttling

memories of happy events. Lassoed
by the cleaner cable I feel the rushing tug
of dust up the pipe. It wasn’t your fault a voice

shouts loud, as I watch sparrows on
the fence, whistling, at wasting energy,
complaining about moments passed.

On the radio the jingle, jangle of
Mr Tambourine Man speaks of dreams
waiting between crisp cotton.