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Soap Operas


Those summer days the sun would raise
the smell of warm carpet and cleaning
chemicals and dust mites would swim
like plankton in the baleen-like beams
she’d put soap operas on for company
while she cleaned I remember
their peculiar muteness
like when your ears won’t pop
after the descent
so caught up were they
in their dramas they didn’t notice
me watching them
sometimes she’d take a yellow cloth
soft as baby clothes
and wipe the static and dust
off the screen
but their expressions didn’t change
for all her waving
their lives uninvolved with ours
I grew to dread their sudden intrusions
their voices rising in argument
as they paced a living room I never saw
anyone dusting but that was always
so clean I don’t believe I believed
it was real but then again
when would that ever matter to me?
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