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(photo by James Avery Kayten)

Tomorrow I mop.
Really, I must.
There’s small blobs of red stuff
and mountains of dust
behind all the doors.
I hate to admit
there’s clumps of old cat hair
embedded in grit.
Is that spaghetti
and some sort of drizzle?
Its been there so long
I might need a chisel.

Tomorrow I mop.
I can’t do it now.
I’m writing a poem and
I don’t know how
I’d do it without
the floor – my muse.
To be a true artist
you must pay some dues.
It’s not being lazy
despite your critique.
Tomorrow I mop…
or maybe next week.

Paul Manchester
November 10, 2012

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