Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #17 : July-December 2012

Marni Ludwig



Broom


      My floor is shining because it is fire.
      My ceiling is shining because it is air.

      You are sweeping the future ahead of you
      like luck. It’s ok, no one’s listening

      to the laugh track of your life.
      The sick call in their jokes,

      but they remember them wrong.
      There’s the one about the three stick-men

      and their drinks, and there’s the doctor
      who knocks but never enters.

      The sick call in. You lick your cobwebs
      and the corners glitter. Everyone cares

      though there is no one who is clean.
      I am not compelled to help,
      resting as I am, on the doorjamb
      of your perfectible world.