Sweeping
I feel stupid. She’s sweeping and I’m praying
in the church that’s open all day, every day. She’s
sweeping.
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
sweeping.
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.
