dust laden

you find the broom
in the closet where you last left
it some months ago,
was it spring?
and begin to sweep.
whose dust is this?
these tumble weeds
under each bed, how come?
how has this happened.
each sill,
each shelf a martian layer
of fine silt.
the threads of clothes.
long strands of hairs,
not yours.
you feel like giving up.
giving in
to the world, but you have
this broom,
this cloth, this vacuum
with it's meager power
sucking
the debris that has gathered
around you.
one room after another.
you go, making things
presentable, at least
when the sun goes down.