Mary Poppin’s Last Stand

I wake up on a Saturday,

last night’s regrets lost to the blackness,

while last night’s drinks weight my skull.

Dragging myself upright, I find the kitchen floor is brown.

I fill the sink with steaming mopwater

and renew the linoleum to a shining blue.

 

I fall asleep on a Monday,

lacy nightgown hugging my under my

red sheets and cloudy comforter, dreams about to play.

I jolt to remember it’s trash day tomorrow,

bare feet on pavement, bare shoulders kissed by rain

as I drag the two black barrels onto the curb.

 

Stomach growls on a Wednesday,

Just home from class, I go to cook.

I first need to tackle a mountain of dishes,

dirty and clean, segregated in our sink. To scrub the

stubborn grease off the stove, the counter.

Only then can I feed my emptiness.

 

Tired feet drive home on a Friday,

lawn littered with dead leaves, the weekend can’t begin

until I tie on sneakers and rake. An hour later,

picking new blisters, I finally sit.

Leaves in a neat pile on the curb.

 

My housemates watch

my daily struggles to keep up with our

revolutionary self-dirting house, perhaps amused

by my mother-like habits of cleaning. They’ll call me

Mary Poppins, Martha Stewart, Madonna without child.

But they’ll never get off the couch

and do it themselves.

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