|
sloth |
|
vacuum yanked to attention in front |
of the giant frown, the couch sagging |
like the corners of her mother’s mouth— |
disapproval— |
quick switch on |
the air growls through the machine in a hurry. |
|
dust motes roused from rest |
take off like bees swarming, |
eye noise on top of ear noise, |
but she can’t see. |
|
the sting is from the grin— |
no, it’s a frown—the glee |
of I told you so |
bunching into the muslin |
sliding into the retention-pond-sized |
buttock marks the sofa harbors. |
|
the handle of the vacuum zooms |
to erase the space |
the sloth has left |
until chunk goes her foot heavy on the vacuum |
noise settles to silence |
dust alights still |
and she settles into the bow of the couch |
face cradling a smile. |
|
|
6.3.05 |
s.spachman |