What’s For Dinner

I swept the floor,
dabbing at the corners with extra care,
making sure every speck
of lint, leaf-piece, and
the memory of you
slammed into the dustpan
for one last free ride.

The sun backed over
linoleum cracks,
crawling over the African Violet
sitting on the kitchen window sill.
The door knob turned
letting dirt snuggle up to the lonely kiss
of forty five degree base boards,
asking what’s for dinner?