Cleaning House



I empty the cupboards and leave them a barren white. I narrated three thousands words, what’s next but take flight? I saw on a dating show, a perfect match highlighted. What’s love, but an incident?

Everything must go. Nothing left a reminder—economic the parsing—to flatten the carcass. I’ve outworn the surroundings, I’ve worn out my endurance. This home is a shell that I’ve made into a cave.

I don’t know what follows next, but I know what a life is. I’ve been ignoble in armour. Gallant inertia. I should know better, these times underscore a change in the weather. I’ll pack my umbrella.

I am detoxing the last of the saga. Cleaning up after myself and preparing anew. Spring is around the corner, and my footsteps must feel it. I’m being paid what is due. I’m hearing Joni Mitchell ring true.

My body thrashes at the ensuing purge. It was a long twelve months, and I’m an unforgettable fixture. I’ll be back on my feet in a couple of days, putting this sore nose to bed. My pride will rest.

Next stop, Neptune, for the one that I leave in its cerulean stead. I’ve returned to Earth, with triumph in my name. I saw a spider under the bed, and I insisted it drown. I’ll draw all of the blinds, so I can see life again.

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