The Job

	The night they had to drive me home
	I don’t remember vomiting
	on the front porch. But everyone
	fingered me the next day
	when the sun beat down on it.
	The spaghetti. The corn.

	That weekend I left town
	to visit an old friend. Left that patch
	of vomit there to rot. Felt bad 
	about that when I came back.
	People in the house didn’t look
	at me like they used to. Just
	went about doing their own thing
	as if I was kind of there.
	And kind of not there. 

	So I found a stick. Began 
	poking at that crusted brown
	patch. Broke it up into fragments.
	Started pushing them over the edge.
	One by one. The separate bits.

	Then a friend emerged out the door.
	Stood there to my side, hands resting
	on a broom handle. The breeze
	hushed. The wind chimes settled
	with a final metallic ring.

	I stepped back. Couldn’t look
	at his face. The broom moved,
	my hand reached for it, grabbing it
	before he could sweep. This was
	my job damn it. And I was going 
	to finish it. All of it. I put the bristles
	to what remained. Swept it out
	of our lives in one steady breath. 

            

 

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