I manage not to cough.
Small motes of light float, marring the dark.

Death, a bored housewife,
fills her time vacuuming
the living room before her husband comes home.
She hurries, not wanting to be caught
doing such menial work.
(Possibly June Cleaver Syndrome)

In her haste, some lucky particles of soil
are missed by the vacuum.
Death knows
the carpet looks good,
but she’s done an incomplete job.
This will seed her desire to pull out
the vacuum tomorrow
to get what has eluded her.

The doctors’ verdicts are in.
I am carpet dirt.
Now my days are spent waiting
for a rumbling noise
and the suction at the top of my head.
The best I can do is hide
under the furniture, avoid Death
and her macabre Hoover
just one more day.

And I’ve reached the conclusion
that if I get tired of the fight;
exhausted from the daily hide-and-seek;
I will stand up from behind the couch,
brush off carpet lint,
let go the fibers
and step into the vacuum.  

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Trace Estes began his love affair with the written word at the age of seven, and many decades later he is still a loyal worshiper. He serves as an Associate Editor and as the Interboard Poetry Competition (IBPC) editor at DesertMoonReview.com. He is forced to write every day by a muse with a gun.  

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