THE GRAY MOP

if not utterly exhausted

one can still write

in this

poetry shows us mercy

between white boards, work gloves,

their woven hands closed or laid open

demonstrate the texture of destiny

is there somewhere a broken thread?

they open to say nothing to hide

they close to end conversation

a mop used time after time goes gray

propped against a rail or window

it becomes a forgotten lover

repressed regret

cancer thriving in the dark

during treatment people feel drained

poetry shows us mercy

though weary, one can write