Something about a broom in a closet’s nook
tells all there is to know about cleansing:
cobwebs, mud, guck, refuse gathered
in crannies where we did not expect
to find them, tripping saints and sinners
into a kind of meaning where there is none.
Dirt gathers, envelopes us into cocoons
of guilt and loneliness, and we spend
our lives dusting it off houses better left
without porches, until we begin to accept
how each anguished or angry swipe
simply means a shedding of straw
with every futile pass.
On some porch covered by snowdrift,
we will always find a broom shorn
of its straw, its handle wrapped
in dingy rags, leaning against a post
like a toothless scarecrow. Looking scared.
—ALBERT B. CASUGA
Mississauga, Ontario 2-3-11
The Given Line triggering the poem (ligne donne)
A thin snowdrift has taken refuge on the porch, covering all but the outermost foot. My old broom sheds pieces of straw with every pass.---Dave Bonta, Morning Porch, 2-3-11 (http://www.morningporch.com/)