If I stare hard enough the clutter might mesh
into the backdrop of where it lies
untouched and unafraid to swallow up dust.
Maybe if I don’t look it will disappear,
perhaps, like a gently-rocking boat,
it will fade into the purples of my wall
and wash up in the floor and no one will know
what happened to the clutter.
A barren sock is a bright white light,
the beam that lies innocently,
that I stare at and want to pick up
but cannot leave my chair.
It claws at my insides,
the clutter clogs up my thoughts
and my stomach.
No matter how I try, no matter how many
white trash bags I shovel clutter into
I am left with more dust
and more things
and more helpless longing to clean up the mess.