by Joe Engel
I’ve heard, one mopping a tile floor
can achieve a state
of Zen. Wet strokes,
a certain repetition.
But in this work
my elevation stays tied
in the boots on my feet.
The words “hurry” and “Zen”
only fuse for long distance runners.
My awareness is drawn
into the air return
from which comes
an occasional whine.
I listen to the sound
of my thoughts being purified.
I hope at the end of my shift
that I completed a circle.
My forehead wrinkled
by work I may have missed.
I swear I still feel dust
in the air, before it settles
suggesting
the next place to begin.