By Amy Moffitt
Inspiration piece

All I ever see these days is the dust

  and the fur, and some strands of hair,

    the household mementos of our shedding

      and changing, and decaying

        slowly.

And all I ever do is try to address it,

  the dirty dishes, the dirty laundry,

    the cat shit, the ants in the hallway,

      the shower mold and dropped food

        and whatever else the cat has knocked over.

I look at my house and I see dirt

  and dust and death and chaos

    and my 44 years of beating back

      against a force I’ll never defeat.

Today, our imagined dystopia is upon us

  and I sit, sipping a peppery brew

    that someone online said would help

      writing a poem, for the first time in forever.

There is free jazz playing in the other room,

  and my Frida Kahlo candle is lit.

    The sky is seven shades of silver

      and for the first time in a long while

        I see it.

There are instruments I don’t play

  and books I haven’t read

    and stickers, and colored pencils

      and paints, and this notebook

        which I bought in Chicago

          during a writers conference

            eleven years ago.

It’s not my first time courting paradox,

  But I can’t help but wonder

    at the force of death

      that is giving me life,

        that has returned my crumbling house to me

          as a home.

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©2020 Amy Moffitt – All rights reserved
©2020 Chandra Achberger – All rights reserved