Poem Draft

Thoughts on Housekeeping

When vacuum cleaners stop
filling your ears with the dread drone
of domesticity,
and the floor becomes a wholesome center
from which all the troubles of the universe
become possible to identify
that is when the coke addictions begin,
and a certain Mister begins to promise a pilgrimage to holy sites.

Some sort of generic lavender scent
coats things and asks you not to analyze anything else,
which is fine and great:
a mini-vacation,
and you had said you needed it.
Still you hide your face at the thought of what Joni Mitchell would say to you now.