Sonnet CXXIII

My floor is like a record of my life:
upon it lies the hair I tore right out,
in anger, deadly sadness, foul strife.
Within it, all the tears I cried aloud,
the rain, now buried, from my window’s eye,
and pencil shavings, littered there in crowds,
a lovely souvenir of prose I write,
or sonnets, all of which I’m very proud.

Along the vacuum comes, that wicked beast,
erasing all my filthy memories.
My lovely dirt and scum and mildew – cured!
I almost miss those mites and fleas,
the crude emotions shed about by me.
Or maybe it’s a plea to shirk the work…