A cloudy day brings a muted light through the window

The kitchen sink looks out to a brick wall.

I look out to the rust colored pits and mountains millimeters high never seeing a sea of green and blue that even prisoners are allotted.

It’s raining inside.

No wait.

Those are my tears.

Tiny ripped corners of single serving spice pockets are like sail boats sloshing over the salty puddles falling from my emotionless body.

I’ve got to keep going.

I need to put on my bright yellow slicker and protect my self from sea spray bouncing from the counter.

I don my sou’wester atop my ears and carry on

I pull a quilted rectangular sail and like an avalanche I wind over the smooth surface back and forth until everything that was in front of me is carried down and crumples to floor - still, eventually.

Eerie short wind gusts sniff over the pile like Death searching for one last soul.

The scent of lemons springs to life and yet it brings with it an infinite repition. Like my personal Sisyphus. Quilted wiping, lemon scent, quilted wiping, lemon scent. The rock gets to the top of the hill and sun breaks through. And immediately an Amazonian forest erupts in front of me. Newness stems from it as does an endless clutter.

Wipe. Lemon. Wipe. Lemon.

It must be Sunday. My day to clean the kitchen.

This was about chores.

I hate chores.