I am The Dustman, Clutter Collector

By Michael Lee Johnson

Surreptitiously,
I am The Dustman.
I am this lazy spirit
roaming, living within you,
weaving around your mind,
vulture consuming cleaning
thoughts, space, your slender body.
I feel it all day,
this night alone.
I am your street sweeper,
garbage collector of thought, the alternator, 
village dweller, walkway partner.
I am the key door holder to the entrance
man, to Summit house.
For years of abuse, I am a dust eater.
I hang high outside on lampposts,
edged inside on top wall pictures.
I dim your lights yellow inside out,
ghost inspector.
Inside I roll the house over.
I am a damp cloth, Mr. Clean,
I smooth over, clutter-free,
ticktock clocks, books,
antique silverware,
pristine future furniture pieces,
solid state advances,
fragment mistakes etched in mind.
Investigations exacerbate our relationship
unhinged. My snaking gets me kicked out.
I still remember those piled up old newspapers,
future books, scattered across your
living room floor.
Shake me, scrape out a new home,
cheaper, exasperated.
I am The Dustman; dustpan shakes out.

---

Michael Lee Johnson

2/1/22

Michael Lee Johnson, from the Chicagoland area, having spent ten years in Alberta, Canada during the Vietnam Era, is an internationally published poet in forty-three countries with several published poetry books, four Pushcart Prize nominations, and five Best of the Net nominations.