Yard Sale of Thoughts

The dishes form a funeral pyre,

which I ignore for a little while, as

I put myself into scrubbing each bathroom tile.

Tiny bubbles burst in denial.

The fastening of our children’s shoes.

The forestry of laundry.

I’ve gotten lost in life’s thickety sty.

At noon, the drip of faucet,

like a hitchhiker’s thumb.

The final spray before I turn off,

before flow is lost.

Garbage bags and forehead lines.

The agony of knowing I will expire.

I look in the mirror at my earthly eyes.

Stillness. Stretching silence.

The soul’s borderline.

I can cross it anytime.

I wear a housewife’s guise.

The music’s stopped,

but the melody will never die.

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