changing sheets, doing chores

We are prepared.
Rolling down the
cornstalks of our sleeves
until all the cotton stems
are steering south,
letting the lint
smiles slink across
the grey expanse of
morning,
then to making the bed.
The sheets feel like sidewalks
scuffed by summer -
we are catching up
the flannel loose-change
and leaving sparks
on the carpet -
starch and sunburn,
and little lightning strikes
under the black
of our fingers,
and then we are
just strobe-lights
singed
and downy
warmth,

and somewhere
we were told
chores were harder
than this