Therapy

My mother used to vacuum away disappointment
Polish hurt into a lemon shine
Knock those cobwebs down like they had spewed
abuses and blackened eyes
She wore sweet little dresses and petal pink lipstick
Hair swept up like the kitchen floor
We never knew a thing but that she liked things tidy
When I see dirt I like to step over it
Tell it I’m not intimidated or a slave to it mocking me
from corners where I can easily not bother to look
I ignore it like bad dreams and bitter wine