The Salesman

As a tribute to the God of Anti-Clutter, here's a poem I'm working on:

The Salesman

Heaven, a salesman, knocks
three times on my door,
while feather dusters fall from his bag.
I answer, letting him in
to morning hair, a cluttered home,
and screaming kids. He greets me
with a grin and peacock feathers.
"I'll take twenty", I say, to stifle
an awkward pitch, and pay with a smile
backed by a promise that won't bounce.