L y n n   M c G e e
V a c u u m   C l e a n e r


Head down, it grazes

on minutia.

Stiff of spine and soft

of throat, it tugs the scalp

up off the floor,

rubber belt throwing a whiff

of industry,

the brushes’ rippling sorority,

chorus line kicking

its smooth knobs

of steel, carapace cold

as we lurch about,

grand and perfunctory,

plowing the living room,

pretending to erase

what has been growing

in our path.