Detritus
Some days just feel bleak.
Sometimes the day slips behind its shadow, refuses to come out and play,
that’s when these memories come limping out of the dark corners where they live, dragging that lame leg
like exhaustion.
The dust motes seek a shaft of sunlight, dancing into existence when it’s found.
The coffeepot says it needs to be cleaned,
the dishes pile up, and the laundry insists that I get involved with it.
The floor demands sweeping,
the bathroom refuses to clean itself,
so I fill the tub with hot water and bleach,
make myself a cup of coffee,
and rearrange the detritus we call living.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
I'm a weirdo nerd who’s extremely subversive. I like rocks, incense, and all kinds of witchy stuff. Intrusive rhyme bothers me.
I’m known as Dena Brown to the revenuers and pollsters.
MA English literature, College of Charleston
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Comments (3)
Your imagery is so evocative the dust motes, the limping memories, the stubborn laundry. It all builds such a relatable mood.
Very relatable and beautifully writ. Some days are just like that.
Never underestimate the little things