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Once I tried to sell them used,
talked myself door to door,
offering terms. I spent
a couple years like loose change,
rang thankless bells in a fugue state.
The vacuuming I pushed, to tell the truth,
had much to do with my town’s crumbly kids.
I sold, including all attachments, ten.
I must have moved a couple of tons
of demonstration dirt in my career.
Once I guessed I was in love with one,
a blue-bagged Hoover that hummed
and purred and whispered in my ears.
It turned mean in its teens, though,
it tried to eat the cat, did eat my daughter’s
gerbils. Two. The bulges didn’t leave
my eyes for weeks. The sounds of tiny screams
became my ears. I shoved that cleaner clear
down the steps. Airborne at first, it bumped
to earth like a flightless bird, its gravid
belly up to the ears with dirt and death.
I swear I will never learn another thing
That growls around the house. I’ve left
The vacuum in the closet, gathering a quiet
dust. Mice nibble nightly at my wired heart.
The Seer Sees