… so instead of finishing with a gruesome made-up story, I’ll share an original poem, written this morning: an ode to a current event at our place.
“It’s like Jenga,” she smiled, as she eyeballed the pile
on the bench at the end of my bed.
“Laundry Jenga,” I sighed, when delighted, she spied
her shirt, midst a section of reds.
Though we try as we might we never just quite
keep up with the laundry downstairs,
So it piles up instead on the bench next my bed
and the socks almost never are pairs.
It’s like Jenga, you see, and we’ll never be free
from the blessing of excessive clothes.
Laundry Jenga, it seems, is the pastime of queens
attempting domestic repose.
So thrust in an arm; it’ll do little harm
to explore for your trousers or sock.
Just don’t topple the pile or we’ll be here awhile
re-stacking, re-piling the lot.
MESC, 17 July 2014