Compulsion

A hollow house shifts

in the darkening hour

but no dust particles sift

sheer as stockings over-

night when the arthritic

ceilings shift, s t r e t c h i n g

swollen joints enflamed

with weighty humidity.

It silently vacuums

all sound, muffles

creaking boards, wind

slipping through cracks,

but misses

 the swoosh,

swoosh,

swoosh,

as a moistened rag rides

grooved tiles, dampens

counters and corners,

but collects no crumbs.

This rag longs to absorb

spilled sauces, squeeze

between cracks, lick grime

and grout, erase mildew

and rust,

shine,

                shine,

scrub,

scrub,

stain,

                stain,

but only slides

across unblemished

surfaces, circling

a set course staged by a raw,

chaffed hand, blistered

from battling entropy.