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.