The Monday Table

In search of a bit of clear white space,

Turning off my designer’s eye,

I seek only a breakfast place,

Recounting my weekend with a sigh.

This mess of incongruity is the Monday table:

Fraught with papers, books, and half-eaten fare.

I strain and wonder, How am I able

To finish Sunday night with this mess lying here?

Reading headlines of the papers I pile,

Belongings of other rooms I stack,

Housewares to be washed, I collect and smile,

This effort is my life, it’s not my lack.

As I recount another fruitful weekend,

Filled with activity, joy, and with thought,

It’s not my housekeeping that’s gone off the deep end,

It’s simply my is still approaching my ought.