Sweeping the Porch
Artists pleasantly
ignore the gentle sweep of her broom
slide, lift, sweep
slide, lift, sweep.
She dances their
furniture over this ancient wooden floor.
Their giggles do not
stir her from her task,
the song is in her
head,
the rhythm is in her
broom.
It knows the dance that
moves her across the floor.
Her fingers rest in these
lightened grooves—
microscopic
fingerprints of paint left on generations of hands.
Her memories retire and
join others
already dancing in
every fiber
of this worn wooden
broom.
The same broom,
the same dance,
a similar story,
almost the same rhythm,
swish, sweep, and
clunk.
_____________ ________________________________________________________________________
Artists do not wear
tennis shoes.
Ballet slippers,
flip flops,
barefeet,
converse high tops,
rolled over, maybe.
Paint is better cold
between the toes.
She wears it black and
trailing down her leg
watery icing snakes
around her calf
a sophisticated
temporary tattoo.
It’s not her art,
only an infant of her
creation.
She tips toes to the
lunch hall, leather sandals in hand.
The paint dries under
her arches
miniscule cracks spread
with each movement.
NOT DONE….NOT SURE WHAT
TO DO WITH IT
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A detour from the trail
to the crow’s nest will lead to the chicken coop.
More roosters than
chickens
They warble and coo
almost like a cat’s meow.
One egg rests outside
the window of the coop.
The window is covered
in chicken wire.
How did the egg get
there?
How long has it been
there?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
These goggles here
hanging on the wooden bench
are for looking at
white painted tree branches.
See nature and industry
collide.
One would think, from
first glance, these relics are simple paper birch branches.
Don’t be fooled.
Feel the texture.
Look beyond the surface.
The bark reveals their
disguise.
This pile rests
decorated and discarded
with only the black
locust tree
alive and standing
guard.
Even so, the rain will
trickle
and drip through these
compound leaves.
Occasionally showers
will pour through branches and run along the bark.
The bright white paint
will fade and yellow.
A tiny mushroom will
find a home.
Then another,
and another,
will set up camp at
this forgotten oasis.
Ants and worms will
crawl in the cracks of each branch’s virginal costume.
Soon only flecks of
paint will dot this grassy soil.
But until the circus
of events begins—
The black ant will
wander confused
over the vast network
of these white highways.
(Do you see him? Use
the goggles and look.)