Habit Chore

You hobble to the closet
And pull out the old, green broom—
Wooden handle, plastic brush,

With the white plastic dustpan
That snaps to the handle—
And you survey the damage

Of an ordinary week
Since you last swept—the dirt tracked
In from outside, the shed hairs,

Bread and cookie crumbs, the bugs
That materialized, dead
Already, flat on their backs.

You lean into it and sweep
The broom in overlapping
Arcs, pausing now and then

To stoop and gather a heap
Into the pan, which you tip
Into the tin garbage can,

One sweeping statement after
Another, the tangled piles
Of everys, alls, and wholes,

The mostlys, mores, or lesses,
The as-a-rules, and the rests.
You sigh at the detritus

In the corner near your desk.
You have such tidy habits,
But you’re such a woolly mess.