I Still Have The Rugsucker Nightmares
Don't ask me why. My rugsucking career only lasted for a short time in the mid-8Os, but I'm still occasionally tormented by bad dreams about those years; dreams in which, inevitably, nothing ever goes right. Not last night, though; last night things were different:
The Rugsucker Turnaround
There’s not as much amiss this morning,
not as much amiss at four or half past four,
when the man moves toward the laptop,
when the rugsucking’s done, and all is well
or all is not, at least, as usual, amiss.
A dream is
just a dream or sometimes just another dream
but the rugsucker’s one that just won’t quit:
the dream of faulty equipment, the misplaced
icy tire on the happy childhood poodle; the dream
of the angry customer, the power lines down,
the steamlines cut and hissing spit, the litter
on the late autumn lawn, leaves and twigs
the man wants all sucked up as if perhaps
the rugsucker can’t tell the difference.
Tonight the rugsucker’s different. Tonight
the white van sails on, pleasantly adrift,
an ark of joy afloat in pleasant suburb seas,
and comes to rest at last exactly as it ought,
exactly where it ought, exactly when it ought
and all goes well.
Nothing goes awry. Nothing
is amiss. The sky stays blue, the equipment
functions well and doesn’t get lost, and the man
asks the lady what she thinks and the lady smiles
and orders the rugsucker paid.
And that’s all
he’s ever wanted, really: just one perfect job
before the sun comes up.