Housecleaning

The usually staid, comfortable rooms— Decked with antiques not too old or too extreme— Metamorphosed suddenly into The dislocated setting of a dream. Beyond stacked furniture I saw the blooms Of roses— "Sutter's Gold" and "Peace"— all new Because the slightest sign of crinkling death On a rose's skin, brought out sharp scissors fast. The roses were arranged and rooted, staid. Around me was the awful price you paid For being decently clean and in good health. I had a feeling the temporal would last: Those brand new roses waving to the past.

Soon I would be—

Unhandsome child of seventeen and marked With pimples and post graduate Adolescence; I no longer ate Sweets; everything embarrassed me— I would be quiet and hidden somewhere, Behind an over-turned, over-stuffed, chintz-covered chair Or in the garden behind the fortress of hedge. I knew I lived just then on a crumbling ledge Though beside me marigolds bloomed and grass was green— And smooth, halcyon buzzing came from unseen Creatures camouflaged in the summer green.

After a week or so, the house would flow Back into normal. A Victorian chair might be Exiled to garage— at first, jarringly— But a week would make it seem true alien there. "How was there ever room for another chair?"

The fleeting smell of turpentine, the panes Sparkling sun, the beds too clean, almost, For a sweating animal to touch— the cost (I didn't pay) was worth these royal gains.

I took a bath each night for a solid week, Tried not to think of my squalid college rooms (Dirty shorts on the floor, stacked books, one ceiling-leak) But, gathering spoils not mine, and offensively meek, I, rocking and clean, looked out at the "Sutter's" blooms.