The Hug

When I need a hug,

I do housework.

Take yesterday –

when an email

from a stone-cold lying ex-landlord

struck my flint backbone

of unflinching honesty,

sparking

a wild fire of wrath

consuming me

until I became

a singular point

yearning

to outdo Vesuvius.

To erupt in one big bang –

my Flow, targeting him

like radiation a cancerous cell.

May your karma,

liar, liar,

set your pants and pathetic pomposity

on fire,

scalding and sending you,

you bag of wind, up in smoke

as many lifetimes as it takes

till remorse, wisdom, and compassion

crack open your sarcophagus

of petrified ash.

In the Mean Time, I’ll scrub soap-scum from shower walls and rings from toilets. I’ll dust mites and dead skin cells off tabletops…lampshades…the piano. I’ll magic-eraser fingerprints from walls

while patiently awaiting clarity’s splash

of cold water,

simmering me down

just enough

to hear the Muse

through my imprecations.

To cook up this poem

while Mr. Clean nudges me

to contact Candice –

counselor and advocate

whose name means 'clarify, pure,'

whose dependable, deep, breathable wisdom

I wrap myself pristinely within.

Who’ll lay down the law

right side up for vacuuming.

Runners unraveling forward –

clear, clean,

calmed.

©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2022