Tearing the tummy
of the gray bag from the back
of my mom’s vacuum got me
a puff of dust in the face. Since
then, I have tried my best
to avoid getting a real vacuum.
There was
a series of handheld machines.
There was a bee
yellow junior cleaner
with see-through dirt
holder. It gentled the dust
up, was nearly choked
to death by
stray dental floss.
It became so gentle,
I set it free in the backyard.
I finally got an adult vacuum
also with a plastic pull out
collection unit. I smuggle
its dust and fur outside,
drop it near the dimples and wedges
that make my yard uneven.
Why should I wrap star particles
and sloughed skin
in a plastic bag? Why should I send it
to the dump?
The old yellow vacuum
sniffs this detritus when it
comes back
to mew and purr
at the door.
