useless art

The standing water in the dishwasher smells
like pond silt and decaying plant matter
and offers a fitting air to the tasks
patiently waiting for my attention.

Like a tree falling to make coal,
I sludge through years and years of boxes
patiently waiting for my attention
And break them down, one by one.

I sludge through these unending piles of boxes,
One inside another, hiding like children
on Christmas Eve, counting presents, one by one,
at the top of the stairs.

One inside another, hiding like children,
these babushka boxes multiplied and festered
at the top of the stairs,
spreading into the living room and kitchen.

These boxes festered with receipts and padding,
Fluffy knots of styrofoam and balled-up newspaper,
spread across the floor of the kitchen.
I ask Mom if she still has my article.

I toss the styrofoam and the newspaper
Into large industrial strength trash bags,
and again ask Mom about the article,
my book review the Courant published 2 years ago.

And now into these industrial strength trash bags,
Go old bills, old candy wrappers, old copies of Time,
and that review published by the Courant,
is probably, she thinks, in the dining room

under old paper towels, old coupons, old birthday cards,
and sun-dried stacks of last century’s news.
I try not to think about any of the other rooms in this house
as I listen to the dishwasher start up in the kitchen.

Because there’s my old bedroom, the computer room,
and the entire downstairs - the guest room,
the old TV room, the laundry room, the garage,
and all the discarded garbage therein.

But the newspaper can’t go in the trash;
it’s recyclable, and needs to be bound in twine
and kept separate from the run-of-the-mill trash.
This is an important distinction to make.

So now I go to the living room to find the twine
as Mom goes to her bedroom to freshen up.
As as I make my way back into the kitchen
I step in a growing puddle of water.

Mom is freshening up in her bedroom,
and I’m standing shock still in the kitchen
socks soaked in a puddle of growing water
leaking from the running dishwasher.

And the water won’t stay in the kitchen,
crawling quietly into the dining room,
leaking steadily from beneath the dishwasher
as the motor gags and chokes.

So I stumble towards the dining room,
knocking into bags of recyclable bottles
and turn off the gagging, choking dishwasher.
But, the water continues to spreads across the floor.

The water spreads underneath all these filled bags,
underneath my cold damp feet,
washes across the dirty kitchen floor,
and starts to scale piles of old yellowed newspaper.

I splash into the dining room, cold and damp,
and yell for some rags, some old towels,
anything to keep rest of these stacks
dry and untouched.

It takes a good minute for Mom to hear me.
I throw the raggedy towels at the floor,
watch them moisten and turn color,
and wait for the water to stop.

I push these towels across the floor,
from the dining room into the kitchen.
While Mom tries using an old mop to stop
water from reaching the carpet.

But as I push from the dining room to the kitchen,
the water pushes back against the towels,
and inches steadily towards the carpet
like the river Alpheus washing towards Aegeus.

And I get angry, angry at these damp towels,
angry at this unending torrent of rank water,
angry at the insurmountable labor
of cleaning, and cleaning, and cleaning,

And now I’m cleaning this godawful stench-ridden water,
so I can get back to cleaning the rest of the house
and I’m angry at all this goddamn pointless cleaning,
and I’m angry at the boxes, the newspaper, the dirt,

angry at this hollow cobweb of a house
I grew up in, I escaped from, I ran away from
because of all the unwanted memories -
all those infinitisimal moments that mean everything

to a five year old, ten year old, thirty year old kid
still wondering if Mom leaving Dad is his fault,
wondering why Mom gave up everything
for a crying baby and a house that won’t stay clean,

wondering why I’m on the floor with wet dirty towels,
cleaning up water that doesn’t want to be clean,
wondering why this always happens to me,
why this always seems to happen to me,

but it’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.
The water is drying up now.
I bring all the dirty towels downstairs to the washer,
and I wash my hands three times.

Mom thanks me for helping with the water problem,
and I thank her for lunch, and remind her that I brought
all the dirty towels downstairs.
We make plans for next week - maybe some dinner

or a matinee and some lunch - my treat.
I give her a long hug goodbye.
“See you next week,” I say, stepping outside,
closing the door behind me.

===

I can’t stand to come home anymore
because a home shouldn’t be a place
where the heart shrivels up