Monday, March 03, 2008


first draft of prose poem.
transcribed from notebook.

When did the petite woman with the English accent start vacuuming the hallway? My curtains swelled as though pregnant. All the air was disappearing. Or I’d left the window open. Yes, I’d left the window open. Clouds with ends tapered off. There were three of them: honky-tonk piano aficionado, instant aging, and then the sound of a vacuum. I listened to the petite cleaning woman sing a country song while wrapping the long, black cord, in an elongated loop, over the fat part of her hand and under her elbow then back up to that fat spot. She had a great set of pipes. I’d lived there for four years. Every morning she had the same routine performed to the same set of three (or four) sad songs. Her husband would always meet her when she was finished and they’d walk under my window; she singing, and him asking her how her morning went. This scene without fail makes me weep.

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