Vacuuming

Here's day four's submission of NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month):

Vacuuming

Since our granddaughter might visit today

I am vacuuming.

I watch the detritus of our passing

disappear off wood floors and area rugs:

small clumps and freshly-cut pieces of grass

the dogs hauled in on damp fur, stuck to backs

rolled like washing machines in the back yard;

brown bits of cereal, dry noodles and flakes of bread,

half a snap-pea, and under the stool a large tuft of

golden retriever hair, part of it stuck to the bottom of the leg.

Between the couch cushions, (look before shoving the nozzle in)

popcorn kernels, seeds, and 38 cents in coins. The quarter is sticky.

Under the couch, where she will undoubtedly play

is a catnip mouse, two chewed tennis balls and a plastic magnet:

the letter E.

By the box in the corner, dozens of shredded pieces of cardboard.

In the hall, (why always in the hall?) black fur from the cat.

Twigs, a long piece of straw; in the corner of the bathroom

a Q-Tip. More hair. Mine and yours. Not from our heads.

Dust. Next to the sink, an earring: pick it up and put it on the dresser.

Under the bed, a sock.

Evidence. We were here. If we suddenly left or disappeared,

this is what we’d leave behind. This is what Ella would find.

Unless, of course, we’d already gotten the house ready for her.