Mother
My mom slams another
medicine cabinet, empties
her last migraine pills,
and starts vacuuming.
Vigorously pushing
and pulling in
my room, a dirty t-shirt
discarded on the floor
gets sucked up, caught.
“Damn it!” The vacuum
wheezes in high pitches,
coughing the dirt back
onto my bed, into my closet.
“Clean this up! My life
would be easier without you
giving me these headaches.” I
grab my keys and leave. The sun
ahead reminds me of summer
beaches and Sunkist orange juice.
I listen to my engine in waves.
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