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.