every day, you come by,
tapping on the door, and
as you holler, 'housekeeping,'
you step into our lives,
stripping the beds of the sheets
damp with those tears of grief
over our lives not turning out
the way we thought,
dumping the ash trays
where we snubbed out
the embers of our faded hopes,
using the broom to sweep up
all the broken promises which
we let fall from our lips and
shatter on the floors of another's soul,
stacking the washer with the glasses
and plates of another meal of misery
warmed up in the microwave, and
as you carry the bag out to the curb,
you turn to whisper, 'i'll keep coming
back to help, even if you hang the
do not disturb sign on your heart.'
(c) 2024 Thom M. Shuman
Venmo: @Thom-Shuman
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