He surveyed the detritus of his life.
There was a scrap of paper on the floor
and its tattered edges
had become permanently affixed
to the fibers in the carpet.
Dust animals
populated the shelves
and shared a place
with old sports memorabilia
that chronicled long since traded players
of a sport now played
without fans
and without noise.
There wasn’t enough room
for all his stuff,
and he promised himself daily
that he would clean out his attic-like space,
with cleaning utensils
and caustic fluids
applied with old rags
that hopefully weren’t flammable.
Most cleaning,
he decided,
was just moving dirt around,
and he refused to waste his life,
already full of useless distractions,
on a job that would never end
until his last day on the planet.
But, then, he had an epiphany,
and spent a few minutes
scrubbing the offending paper,
and vacuuming the tiny bits that remained,
until the carpet was ready
for a new infusion of dirt,
in the endless cycle of life.
