Third Sunday Poetry, Once Again Late

That’s late for me, of course, not the poetry. And technically what it’s called is the Bloomington Writers Guild’s “Third Sunday Write” (cf. November 24, et al. — yes, it’s been awhile) and, yes, it looks like I’ve missed a few months.

So it goes.

But in any event, let’s cut to the chase. These come from prompts posted on the month’s third Sunday (aha!) by Shana Riter, one of four usually, of which this time I picked the fourth: Spring Cleaning. And here you may be ahead of me already: Of course I found a way to pervert the premise. Thus:

SPRING CLEANING

The things that filter down
through a mattress —
unbelievable!
Bed bugs, of course, roaches,
fleas from the cat,
body lice (we don’t mention
these normally, only with friends,
and even then only when
comparing remedies),
and that’s just insects.
The cat herself once,
through a largish gap
she’d carved with her own claws
(and do not ask why).
Pajama buttons almost by
the bushel, plus cords from those
old-fashioned kinds of bottoms —
the ones that still close that way.
Lint from them too, both bottoms
and tops (that is lint from pajama
tops, but whole tops sometimes
when wearers are frisky — we
won’t go into that, or bottoms
either. Privacy still counts!).
But the thing is, these end up
in the box-spring, where coils
hold them fast, accumulating
as bed use continues,
night after night,
until it gets so heavy, the
whole spring that is, with its
accumulations, that
unless it’s cleaned sometimes it,
the mattress, and the two sleepers
(whatever it might be they’re doing above it),
could crash through the floor!

And that is that.