I wield my mop like I’m preparing an ice sheet for a granite curling stone.
Melting the ice with curling broom tipped fire, to carve the stone a path home.
My lime green washroom brush scours tracks in the shower floor dirt;
I pretend I’m digging dinosaurs, Greek pottery, Celtic axes made of chert.
The pink rubber gloves that come up to my elbows provide protection
From isotopes, nuclear fusion reactor cores, mass spectrometer radiation.
In short, I dream a bigger life, instead of one that swallows me
In tasks achieving nothingness, played to a tune of monotony.