The Myth Of Everything Where It Is Supposed To Go

A day will come when the living room carpet is not

cluttered with pandas and goldfish cracker crumbs,

when I can sit down

without first moving a Lego X-Wing ship

or dirty socks out of my way.

I will not trip over winter owl hats in the first weeks of spring,

and couch cushions will have their place.

There will be no mashed banana or smeared snot in upholstery.

There will be no fingerprints on glass or shiny wood.

. . .

Once there was a time when my world was orderly,

neatly patted down.

I could look around me and see

everything where it was supposed to go.

Stuff stayed serenely still.

That life was sparse and silent in comparison to the heaps

of blocks and dolls and trucks that clutter and chatter and clatter now.

. . .

Now seems a time of chaos and excess,

a place where every available surface is stacked

with chubby, cardboard books, a time to wonder how long will it be,

and who and where will you be when order is restored?

But now there is this plump hand, reaching up to offer me

a tiny, purple, plastic teacup of air, and for the fortieth time today

it is priceless perfection just there.