On weekends I cleaned an old dance floor at a private club. I swept up soft powder, dance gliding powder. There was a mirrored ball above the center of the floor, which I would turn on, watch it slowly spin, and I could hear it's electric motor's low uneven hum. I pondered all the little mirrors in the morning's light. Lesser seen quiet side of all the common things. I played out many imaginary scenes up stairs there in that dance hall. Mostly I washed cigarette ashtrays, vacuumed carpets, cleaned toilets, and mopped.