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The Rain

My son’s cleaning up his room
and I’m not really glad.
He’s cleaning up his room
and it’s raining clothes and crockery.
The washer’s running amok, the dishwasher too.
I’m cleaning up the refuse.
I cannot stand the state of the hall
so it’s music and coffee for me.
I get an ugly grunt when I say,
“you run the damned machines”.
So I out it in and push the buttons
and deliver the broom to him.
My son’s stopped cleaning up his room.
It’s not clean but at least the rain has stopped.
Peter Cartwright

first published in ZineWest 2014
ISSN 2201-1242

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