O, New House,
That sit-eth so still and so quiet
I apologize for your boxes remaining,
For the little scraps of paper
Lying on your dark and lovely
Hundred-year-old hardwood floors.
And for the piles of unfolded laundry
And your undecorated walls.
Your kitchen floor is smattered
With the mud of work boots and gym shoes
That walked your new range into place
Between the mismatched countertops.
I should mop. But I can't find the mop.
I can't find anything, really
Not my pair of gray work pants
That I meant to wear today
To my high school teaching job that keeps me busy
And is the reason for your mess and disarray.
June is coming. Thank goodness.