The Shadow Waters

Tuesdays

She dusts the television screen,
swipes along the base, up the sides,
flicks the antenna. Then the end tables,
the brass lamp bases, beneath
the marble statue of Mary.
She pulls a chair to the center
of the room, climbs up, runs the cloth
along a blade of the ceiling fan, turns it.
Does each blade like this. Pauses.
Puts her wrist to her nose. Sneezes.
Then returns the chair. Flicks each
family photo, then sweeps the frame edges,
the coffee table, beneath the magazines,
beneath the graystone coasters,
the bookshelf, up to the top on tip
toes, then each spine, five at a time,
up over down over up.
Pauses. Puts her wrist to her nose.
The sun shines through the window
onto the carpet. Motes tumble
in the light. She dusts the bottom books.
Sneezes. Sneezes again. The sun's rays
vanish, a cloud passing, then return.
She looks around, wrist to nose.
Motes fall like cotton rain.

posted by the shadow waters @ 11:38 PM