because it knows that nothing can ever be clean enough, wiped down
enough, put enough in its place, buffed and dustless
for this, I love it, this slender sleekness masquerading
as a cleaning tool, what is not to love
about something with such purpose, slim
and hard, the heft of it, the glide
of its downy underside, the cloth
tucked neatly about the rubbery base, the tip
ready to burst, to squirt forth
quick ejaculations of cleanliness
not merely utilitarian and no mere
knick-knack, this thing understands
that part of me that would antisept the world, order
and organize, straighten compulsively, clear
clean, color-code and stack
everything into piles ready to be touched,
gone over, and made like new
there is a power in this, this swiffing
this nearly effortless polishing, this thing
always ready, waiting
to be taken out, sheathed
and danced across my smooth, hard-
wood floors, shooting at my command, a gentle squeeze
from my fingers, a clean sweep
everything left aglow
and just slightly wet
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
T. Cole Rachel lives in New York City. His first book of poetry, Surviving the Moment of Impact, was recently published by Soft Skull Press.
