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.

Accompaniment

Here's day one's submission of NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month). I had help today:

Accompaniment

April 1, 2013

You sit at my elbow,

your back to me, absorbed -

gazing out the window

as I pluck at these keys like harp strings

laboring hard to create a melody of page-symbols

that sounds as natural and as rhythmic as your purr.

You’ll soon look at me over your shoulder

as if to ask, “How’s it going?” or more likely, “You done yet?”

Then a dramatic stretch and a large, bored yawn,

and step in front of the screen where I write these words.

With indifference you’ll strut to the edge of the desk;

a sniff of feigned interest in the keyboard

will lead to a slow lounging recline upon it, a knowing look at me

and a gentle paw on the back of my hand:

“Here. Type here, on this black-and-white fur.

Play your tune upon the living and breathing,

and flow within the oh-so-soft textures

while I accompany you in silky staccato with

a slight twitch of the tail.”