HOUSEWORK AS CHAOS

November passed, friends, on the nod,
While I, holed up in an old house,
Fidgety, swept the hardwood to roust out God,
Who'd determined the rugs (few) to be clouds
And paid dust no attention.
Such desperate housekeeping had to be flawed.

My old life, then, like Old Golds, formed a bad habit,
Recondite, yes, as hibernation;
Cat's in the cupboard, but who'll find me?
And the solitary visitation,
While my wind-up clock dripped and dripped
Came from, garbled, the late night alternative station.

Believe it.  November slipped
Backwards into the biggest sleep.
Determined, yes, I paced the floors and tripped
On rugs' upturned corners.
Old God played furtive as a mouse,
Too cagey, as he bedeviled, to show his face—
Those days, hey, I knew no better, but swept.

 
Jack Hayes
© 2010