Off the Rails

Desperate times call for desperate measures. With the deadline for tonight’s poem looming, I can’t be held responsible for what comes out. You’ve been warned.

Koan Gone Wild

A spider is a mop
grey-brown legs perfect for the task at hand
but if all mops were spiders    no floors would be cleaned
spills would congeal into inexplicable floor rorschach
no one would care     their eyes not fixed to see anything not a spider
dust bunnies would run riotously in herds
across the plains of desks
counters and yes, floors
that is, the bunnies not set upon by moppy arachnids
soon no one would attempt to clean
their nightmares too vivid
full of casting the leggy ingénues
into weird tableaux
wearing ruffs of bunny dust
clumps of false lashes ringing too many eyes in a spidery fringe
until overrun     everyone abandons inhabited places
to the multi-limbed and takes up ancestral lives
with no place for cleaning with brooms
and a mop returns to something
other than a spider

Curious to see more of my writing?  Visit me – Brenda Joyce Patterson – on Facebook, Twitter, and my website.

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