Mopping the Stage

Mopping the Stage

The auditorium is quiet and dark,

only the spotlighted shadow of the swaying swish

of a new mop head, lightly damped,

hot water only, clean, no soap,

slowly caressing the mahogany stage.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

The stress of society seems far away,

walls of baffle blocks keep it at bay,

enclosing two hundred seats sitting in the ray

of a single silhouette, sliding slowly across,

swinging a mop, stage left to stage right.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

The mopper is quiet and quite content,

intent upon the event at hand,

thoughts and muscles gliding gently,

firmly flexing in pulsing focus,

silently shadowing spirits of the past.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

The stage floor planks, once a deep wineglow,

darkly echoing vintages of thought evolutionary,

played out with makeup and prop, now is gouged and pitted

reflecting the relentless march of life's dashed hopes

amid the dirty footprints of groping popes.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

But under the tender petting of the mop,

the hue of the wood, imbued, glows anew,

robustly red in plush vortex of delirious depth,

yet elegant in right-angular simplicity, solid,

awash with life, aglow with forest memories.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

And as the mop deepens the blush of the mahogany sheen,

the planks begin to flare with the haunting of curves

of sweeping branches and blanketing leaves exalting

exuberantly in the wild dark scent of midnightlight,

and in the steamy rainshine of bright noondaylight.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

Visions swirled through fractals of fog to tease the mind's eye

with scarlet beauty amid crimson grace and the earthy, sensual brown

of the voluptuous Melia, daughter of Gaia, mother of Sapiens,

reaching up through spitting chainsaw, brutal axe and slicing sawmill

to gently bestow an instinctual warmth that glimmer-wakens a wild love.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

Enraptured in fervent silhouette on stage, a person with mop, half-erect . . .

A smile quietly gracing shadowed corners of bowed head, half-erect . . .

Muscles melodically rippling in rhythm upon bent shoulderback, half-erect . . .

Blood warmly rushing immediacy to flexing extremities, half-erect . . .

Shakti ardently coiling through every chakric sense, half-erect . . .

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

Harmonic Spacetime fills the bloodwood stage,

the Universe and One, Forever and Never, Life and Death, I and I,

the curtain falls on Newton while through the Quantum tangle,

frolicks and gambols, the Parnassian mount, upon Chaos brambles,

burbling through fractal realities of The Universal Mind.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.

But then tame thoughts disturb the flow:

Surely she's killed and dead by now.

Might there not Be, anymore, a Goddess of Mahogany?

And the mop stops with a sad sigh,

as a few moments pass and Time sags a sad goodbye.

. . .

Then a kaleidoscopic burst in a cute chakric giggle,

Silly One, of course I'm here!

Yes, I know you're there.

Yes, I feel your touch.

Yes, I talk to you.

It's a special job, not done every day in a job of everyday jobs.