dancing

it is night.
three beds --
top bunk, bottom bunk, and a twin --
are all laid over with sleeping boys.

i step softly into the hallway
and listen for the nothingness
that tells me it's time.

time to pick up my broom
and begin my night dance.

not a dance of romance or passion, this,
but a dance of rhythm, yes,
and of order.

i start in that hallway at the bottom of the stairs
and carefully, so as not to dislodge more paint from the trim,
and quietly -- well, as quietly as possible on this floor --
the dance begins.

now i am sweeping tramped-in outdoor dirt.
next i am in the living room,
removing snacky remnants from the edges,
breakfasty runaways from the trail worn through the middle.
then comes the dining room,
and the kitchen,
then the art room,
that green landing,
and finally, the back steps.

it's the same every night.
i could sweep this pattern in the dark --
to be honest, i often have.

"good job," dan says as i finish.
and, if he doesn't say it, i know he'll be thinking it sometime soon
as he surveys his humble kingdom:
rolling on the floor with a prince or three,
throwing impromptu feasts,
entertaining dignitaries.

he loves me, his cinderella,
and his love inspires me to dance

with a broom.