"You have to work on hands and knees
to get things really clean,"
she'd say,
and Dad would growl
"Sit down and stop your fussing!"
How he hated it
when she charged his armchair fortress
with her roaring vacuum.
"Lift your feet just for a moment!"
It always took too long.
Dad hated all the cleaning;
his evenings and holidays invaded
with never-ending quests for supervillains Dirt and Grime.
At sixty-five he started roaming,
hanging out for coffee,
sweeping up if no one stopped him.
Mom would wonder where he was
and why he'd spend a dollar twenty-five (plus tip)
for something he could get for free at home.
Dad hated all the cleaning.
And yet, the other day
he frowned at my poor bathroom.
"You didn't learn much from your mother," he pronounced.
"Her taps were always shining."
I was all primed to tell him off,
yell that I had to work full time
and kids were messy
and needed me more than they needed shiny floors,
and anyway, how was I supposed to know
when Charles was decked out in his wedding duds and tender smiles
(he's very bright and will go far some day with software)
he'd turn out to be so challenged
when it came to mops and toilet plungers.
As I said, my mouth was cocked
ready to pull the trigger,
when unaccustomed brightness in Dad's eyes
as he turned away
told me how he longed
for Mom on hands and knees
scolding him to move his muddy feet.
