"Housecleaning," A Poetry Post

When we lived in government housing
my mother used to
mop the
tiled
concrete floor with
hot water, bleach and
octagon soap.

Sometimes she
used
Palmolive.

If we were out of all she would use
hot water and
lemon ammonia.

I remember watching her
fill and set out the
huge steaming bucket.

It was a big floor so she
used a big mop but she
had these small
hands.

I remember marveling that
such small hands could
reach down in such
hot water and
ring
such a big mop and
clean
such a large floor
with so
little effort.

She made housecleaning a
minute thing for us.

Anybody can
put a little bleach and
some Palmolive in a
bucket of hot water and
clean up most messes.

That was the message,
the willingness to
address
most mess.

It was the heart, however,
the heart, the soul, the mind
that proved most
complicated.

-T. D. James-Moss

"Youths," A Poetry Post

Youths go all the way to the edge of the cliff to
peer over for the rush of almost falling.

Youths dip their toes into ten-foot water knowing
they can't swim or wade in three feet.

Youths swear aloud in delicate situations.

Youths puts their hands over the flame to prove
they're old enough to
handle the heat.

Youths drive fast around the curves.

Youths believe they can
use the cover of darkness to
hide and exercise their
secret motives and passions.

Youths think that endings can be forced.

Youths do not consider the
entirety of the consequences
surrounding their actions.

Youths make excuses.

Youths,
as a result of their youth,
wedge themselves stuck tight
into situations they
cannot escape.

Youths dig pits to fall into.

They drown in,
pummel through,
burn up buried under
the tinder of
so many temporary
bits of foolishness.

We,
the adults,
are so wanting to be young.

They,
so wanting to grown,
will never live
to be old.

-T. D. James-Moss