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L y n n M c G e e
V a c u u m C l e a n e r
Head down, it grazes
on minutia.
Stiff of spine and soft
of throat, it tugs the scalp
up off the floor,
rubber belt throwing a whiff
of industry,
the brushes’ rippling sorority,
chorus line kicking
its smooth knobs
of steel, carapace cold
as we lurch about,
grand and perfunctory,
plowing the living room,
pretending to erase
what has been growing
in our path.
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