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.