Nero

 

Nero

I shall call him Nero,

you may call him what you will.

Nero, he’s the one fiddled while Rome burned?

This one idles a computer

while it rains.

And floods.

I work, my arms ache

my back—

but mostly my heart and hands

wringing with heaviness.

Over and over

heavy water on the floor

heavy tears

choking.

The sky is dark

and pouring.

Darker my heart

and it rains,

and it floods.

Nero reads a book,

sipping wine.

I mop, sweeping in long strokes.

My hands are soft,

the work is hard.

I wring towels

into buckets of dark bubbles,

my muddied dreams.

Over and over

for hours.

Hours.

Nero comments wryly

“Better get on the roof and see where it’s coming in.”

Yes.

Please.

But Nero will have better things to do tomorrow.

And the next time it rains

as the last time—

and every time and time again

down the years.

When it rains

it floods.

Over and over

the towels sop and sop

I wring and wring,

and my heart

is hardened against him.