A poem about sweeping (someone’s gotta do it)



I feel stupid. She’s sweeping and I’m praying

in the church that’s open all day, every day. She’s


Someone’s got to sweep it. Why not at 10:34 a.m. on a Thursday.

And what am I doing praying in the middle

of the morning on a Thursday. Don’t I have anything better

to do, like


I am not the only slacker here—four of us kneel while she sweeps

like I’ve never swept my own home.

She’s on her third pass now

with her blue dust mop. She shakes the leaves,

dirt, dead beetles near me in the corner. Leaves

to locate the dust pan with snap-on brush. I stay.

Stare at the debris, so easy to collect, to toss out.


  1. Maybe she’s praying too.

    What’s weird is, skimming this first on my phone without my glasses on, every time I read “sweeping” as “weeping.” Then when I got to the dust mop I thought she was weeping while she was sweeping.

    Someone’s got to weep it.

  2. sweep, pray, love.