Father, we keep ourselves real busy.
We are cleaning
We are packing
We are dusting.
We do not think of your dead eyes,
your ashes, the last time we heard
your laugh.
Father, we are not resting.
We are walking
We are pacing
We do not say goodnight.
Because we are tired and our hands
are dry. We are dirty
but the house is so clean—
the smell of bleach
has become our perfume.
