Housekeeping

A Poem by Adrienne Su

The problem: it always undoes itself.
Dust motes aim for all things horizontal;
rinse water stains the faucet with minerals.
Even when no one’s home, the home expels
mysterious crumbs onto counters and shelves
while insects, spiders, and hairballs fall
into everything open, from ceilings and walls,
and books shed tiny shards of themselves
as if pretending to be dogs and cats,
asserting territorial claims
and declaring to their people that
leaving them here is inhumane.
A house of course is not a pet,
but something in it breathes the same.

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The Artist’s Sitting Room in Ritterstrasse, Adloph Menzel, 1851

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