I picked up a speckle of sun
from the kitchen floor this morning.
Silly me, I thought it was a bit of torn Kleenex.
I pick up things from the floor:
stinky socks underneath the dining table,
scratched CDs and crumbled
homework near the computer,
Speedo jammer drown in the foyer,
Shorts and t-shirts slouching everywhere.
And in the bathroom, jamming the door,
Calvin and Hobbes are sneering.
“That is your job, Mother.”
My son’s cracking voice reassures;
a boy who called me Mommy yesterday but Mother today.
“Yes, son, it’s my job,
a secure occupation I have signed for, for life,
permanent and forever…
and Don’t forget to flush the toilet.”
When I turned back to look, the sun ray was there no more,
vanished from the tile floor,
it is leaping on the couch of faded brown,
it is washing the wall yellow with purple shimmer,
And then, outside the window, it is flirting with
the queen palm and tickling
the water beyond the iron railing.
It is everywhere else in the world!
I have been picking up treasure every day.
That is the job I have signed up for.
