Something old... About Cleaning.

In wanting to keep up with the habit of posting; in lieu of my rekindled appreciation of my previous work (apologies for narcissism), and in keeping with an opportunistic approach towards life, here's another poem, from my Blue Book, circa 2010. Much of which seems festooned with romanticist eroticism- this piece less so.  Enjoy...

I spent a while, cleaning my room

as its eventual

need to be

dawned.

I spent hours, barefoot

in my bathroom,

working tired muscles,

sinew; verged on snapping.

I scrub,

polish,

rinse.

Eroding, so slightly,

the skin from my hands,

and fingers. Probably toes.

Some stains never go.

I didn’t spend so long

changing my sheets

or the pillow cases, upon,

which I lay.

I didn’t change, at all

the dirty, rich, duvet

or it’s cover, coveted,

with sweat and memories.

I allow my heads’ collapse

upon it’s many folds

and exalted,

I breathe in

a history of which,

only I know.