A poem about Housework. Sort of.

the surfaces gleam, but the drawers are stuck - an awkward fork, rearing up like bad thoughts, shoved away with stowaway crumbs and jam, resting in a crusty tray, determinedly ignored and alternately raged at. the cupboards are full, but open the door and cans fall as a sudden burst of heavy tears, onto despairing tiles hastily hoovered, seldom mopped. they rest a while in collapse, paused, and then thrown in all at once, higgeldy piggedley, best before 2003 - back into dark captivity. the stacks are neat, but practise secret mitosis, multiplying unopened post, unpaired socks, undecided destinations. pisa-piles tower on the brink on the stairs, desperately shored up and shored up until - sure enough - they tip over, and must choose to start again, knowing the end already. the floor is clear, but inside each box and chest and drawer is a jumble, tangled thoughts twisted until nothing can be found, or shut, or made sense of. the clothes are clean, but never sorted, and black soap-mould lines the drum, beating you, eating you up grey rubbery cell by grey rubbery cell. the shelves hold regimented trinkets and books, but behind them mutiny brews, dust gathers, furry shadows curdling thick and dense. they rise at the back, underneath, in the corners - the places you try not to look, and not to see and not to go - battening down pending chaos under a shiny veneer that proves you must be as ok as you seem. because on the top, the surfaces gleam.