Dirty House Poem

there is poetry in a dirty house.
the way a sweatshirt is flung here
or there
the way dust settles
books pile up
and fray, the top book,
a flippery paperback,
the bottom, a hardback
long forgotten
in the sink, the layers
of toothpaste and saliva,
without which it would seem
no one has ever spit
on the blue porcelain,
slides past the chrome
we have traces in this house
lives leaving footprints
let's not forget ourselves and sweep
the drying grass off the foyer
let's not forget the night before
and make our beds
the way the creases fold,
the way the blanket tangles
some record of tosses and turns
some indelible love
we call the swirls of our bed linens,
art
we call a note from our child
scribbled on blue lined paper,
literature
shame on us
to disturb the masterpiece

there's poetry in a dirty house,
a triangle of striped shiry
caught in a drawer
shoes strewn
patriots being born

I fear the vacuum
lest some vital record
of our existence be erased

I say let the artists live
and let the house grow on

(c)Jill Winkowski          2009