Housework

With springtime enthusiasm,
Cousin Cleo put on her gloves.

Not her snow, party, or boxing gloves,

but her colorful cleaning gloves.

She sanitized every surface

that ever-touched human skin.

Cleaned lamps, tiles and mirrors.

Washed curtains, rugs and windows.

Dusted off lintels and bookshelves,

photographs and figurines.

Replaced the dark sheets and tablecloths

with the more muted pastels.

Arranged the folded clothes in lined drawers,

and those hanging tight in all the closets,

placing the lightest ones as headliners.

Organized the contents of the fridge,

and of every nook and cranny of the pantry.

Pruned the bushes, raked the leaves,

potted and up-potted indoor and outdoor plants.

Put fresh fruit, foliage and flowers

all over the flat.

And went over every corner of the floor and ceiling,

until ruthlessly eliminating or evicting

every single, married and widowed spider.

Once finished

with brooms, mops, and rags,

rakes, sponges, and brushes,

washer, dryer, and vacuum cleaner,

exhausted, satisfied,

Cousin Cleo the housecleaner

finally sat down to watch a romantic movie

with a cup of jasmine tea.

Meanwhile,

the most industrious of the surviving spiders

decided to help Cousin Cleo decorate,

beginning the design

of the cobwebs’ spring home fashion collection.

And new dust, new grime,

new evidence of life

began to accumulate,

again.