I sigh
There’s no poetry tonight
It’s been stolen, I think,
By the crusted honey O’s cemented
On the granite
The cereal O’s laugh at my scrubby sponge
And I can’t find the utility scraper
To pry them up
Because the garage
Oh, the garage
That place where I’d rather
Let the webs and boxes
Stay hidden in the dark
Where I don’t have to face them
Yes, the scraper is hiding in there
 
Perhaps I should just sit
On the couch that used to be deep green
until the bodies rubbed spaces
Smooth and light
The arms sticky and unraveling
And sitting down hard, I
OUCH
Find batman
Then throw him
Hoping he has his utility belt 

 
My eyes drop to the floor
Oh, the floor
Cursed by gravity
Mismatched shoes that only answer to
“Mom, have you seen my…?”
Vicious Legos lying in wait for unsuspecting feet
Half a crayon threatens to become one with the carpet
A grungy sock, or three, or nine
They multiply here on the living room floor
And disappear into thin air 
When clean and dry
 
I fight to see the mess as beautiful
As evidence of a lived life
To see tiny toes in the socks
Fingers digging to find a Lego that will fit
Another’s curls tilted to shade the picture just right
Too soon they will be gone…
And then I will lament the poetry
I lost in the mess
Because I was too blind to see it
If only poetry wasn’t so messy
I sigh

~suelarkinsweems ’11