I never learned
how to keep
out of limbo;
it endlessly makes its way from floor to washer to various piles
rarely seeing the insides of my Ikea dressers.
Ikea never taught me that I should care whether my bookshelf is right-side up –
it holds philosophies, psychologies, diaries, menageries
just fine with its feet in the air.
Most days only my cat knows the whereabouts of my slippers, paper clips, hair ties, unpaid bills,
and other various bits of life.

Most days only I know the whereabouts of my own scattered self

My computer always freezes, my sheets get changed when they migrate off the bed of their own accord, my socks are mismatched and always have cat hair on them

I never learned to put things in their place.  Not even myself.
I have lists of things to do but I turn them over and scribble poetry.

Is this Your Thirties, then? This wild unknown, play-acting adulthood, singing, 9-5, groceries, pastel dust, favourite pens in the couch cushions, warm peanut butter cookies in lieu of vacuuming, restless hearts, half-finished dreams, half finished poems... ?

*                  *                 *
Piles of laundry make friends with piles of music scores, research articles, dishes, and they blend into the landscape – oh let me move that for you, here’s a patch of couch and a cup of tea. 
It’s all I’ve got to offer; that and me.
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KindredSpirit's picture

It's funny like that

What the poets


Care about .