On Broom Closets and Evolution

Back when I was a broom closet in Chernobyl,

There was a beautiful broom I knew. 

A pine fresh smell and barn straw home-iness…

I still remember the way you danced with the dustpan.

I was sorry to have evolved without you, my friend.



(Today I rediscovered my toes; the socks usually put them out of my mind. My shameful neglect has resulted in severe overgrowth.

I picture a family of mice sailing across the Atlantic, in my big toenail.)



I still do not feel quite at home in my skin.

(As a broom closet, I could say, if I could say,

“You can come, and hide your miseries here.”

I would tell no one, being too busy

Being a broom closet.)

Now I have only ears for hearing,

A mouth for speaking,

And hands for applause.



But I can use them,

And you can know,

I love the way you dance with the dustpan.

© Joseph Kuchar