Written by Jasey Roberts
Text from My Mother, 3:09pm
Can you run Roomba
and make sure she gets under the bed
where the dust collects, and I cannot
reach? Make sure she doesn’t get stuck,
you know how she gets,
with rotor-brushes like little spider fangs
sunk into a sock she can’t suck up.
She works so hard, and I love her dearly for her belly,
crammed full of lint.
On Brushing my Teeth Late at Night
Right now, it’s unconquerable.
Why do I do things
with no immediate benefit
other than the promise of eventual health?
Eventual security? I am in bed,
and life feels pretty damn secure.
In the morning, my face has a swamp
filled with frogs and ivory pads
floating in muck.
Or maybe- a rotting piano,
with uneven, pliable keys
that could have been restored,
if only someone had taken the time to do it.
You’re not as nice as the first one.
I buy you treats to clean your mouth
because it smells like rotten salmon and floor puff,
but your mouth still stinks. When you sleep,
you don’t sleep in your crate like Bear did.
Instead, you scuttle into my room and get under the covers
and nudge yourself right between my legs,
cold wet puppy nose prodding everywhere.
We play fetch in the yard, and you run
over Bear’s mound, bringing the ball
but refusing to let it go.
I wonder how long it’ll take for me to get used
to the way things are, and how soon that moment will be
before they change again.