Scrubbing my house for a third time today
I think to myself, is there poetry in this?
Frustrated, at the source of this mess,
I wonder if my cleaning spray contains iambic pentameter.

I would not hear it anyway,
I’m tone deaf.

Anger in my soul I consider a place with no:
working, rushing, planning, cleaning
only the source of words to mull over.
Oscar Wilde’s beautiful Dorian Grey comes to mind, all grace,
his horror of a face locked away behind mortar
until the day his corpse mirrored his soul.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers lyric
‘long after the fun of living is done’ comes to mind,
full of plans that year, I was graduating,
back when life excited me,
distinctly, I remember not understanding that line
And was convinced I never would.

I identify with Nathaniel Hawthorn’s Hester Prynne
young mothers unaware of troubles in store
old mothers keep quiet to protect the legacy.
lines engraved on a women’s face
are the cost of membership.

I wish my days were spent in University with ghosts of:
Edgar Allen Po, Dickinson, Joyce, Keats, Ginsberg and Kerouac.
Learning poetry
in its dissected form
but no time for that
dust mites are calling.

– L.J. Lenehan –


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