I NEED TO MAKE A SONNET OF THIS ROOM
I need to make a sonnet of this room,
Its bulge of table & unwaxed wood,
Tablecloths spattered with yesterday’s food.
Shall I labor this morning with my broom
To sweep the dust away or let it stand,
Believing there is poetry in such matters,
The arrogance of objects is getting out of hand,
Household revolt of plate & platter?
A mood is on me to let the cleaning go,
Inciting the kitchen to upset itself again.
It is time I let the household gods know
They deal with a most impractical man,
One to whom clutter is a way of life.
Hell, now I have reasons to find another wife.
(I have taken a bit of "license" here...I have no intention of finding another wife)