Chore

My mom has this way of asking us to do chores. The words come out in 800 meter waves, crashes down on your and smothers you until you can't breath. This is a poem about chores! I love my mother dearly

Being near her is like

getting caught in the rage

of a runaway tornado

This whirlwind of stale food

the scent of unwashed soup pans

the feel of crumbs between my toes

the creak of aching bones

the troubles of distant faces

words shot out like

bullets from a machine gun

nipping the corners of my ears along their journey

the confusion leaves me arms deep

in palmolive, water, grease

scrubbing the house clean

When done, the house shines

and my hands are like

two white prunes soaked in wine.