The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,
Clean swathe through the valley,
Creating mounds of discarded,
Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,
-whether or not they resulted in a steady boyfriend,
Or a hang-over-
A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.
A wayward sock appears on top of the
Crest on the
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,
And as was written,
The cockroach was right.
When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.
♦picture♦ - Environmental Protection Agency
evocative short poetry – words move