On Trying

Heartache. I watch the robot vacuum 
go over the room. Sweep and mop, sweep
and mop. Bump into corners then back
away. I understand the assignment 
and I understand the constraints.
My attention is likewise faithful.
Is always correcting until a semblance
of purpose and direction is regained.
What intelligence decides what's ample
and what's not enough? The heart  
wobbles on the edge of every absence,
trips on every untethered clod. How
do we become so used to the ways
our bodies occupy space? Even in it,
I long for it. A faint chime sounds 
to signal the end of a sequence.