by Rachel Creager Ireland
There was so much to do, but this frail,
aged cat wanted nothing more, lived for
nothing more than to sit in her lap
and bask in her attention.
And the violin over there in the corner,
it would like to be played.
The dishes in the sink were miffed
that they might be neglected.
“What about us,” cried the muscles, “you
haven’t stretched us in days. We need yoga.
And the mind agrees.”
Clutter chuckled. “You think the mind is going
to settle down, with us hovering all around?”
Bits of debris snickered on the rug.
In her heart, poems wept to be written.
The phone rang with a to-do list.
And somewhere, she was sure it was in this house,
a lost key whispered, find me.