Mess

I used to have a fantasy
That when my kids were grown,
My home would be immaculate –
A neat, unsullied zone.

It’d look just like a magazine,
Each object in its place;
If someone dropped by there would be
No panic on my face.

I’d open up the door and oh,
With pride my heart would flutter;
As I’d invite the person in,
There’d be no hint of clutter.

Yet things have not worked out that way,
Despite my strong desire;
I look around, surprised to see
The piles are even higher.

My husband’s gym stuff on a chair,
The mail stacked on the table;
The clothes I’ve worn but not yet washed –
I’ll get to when I’m able.

The newspapers and magazines
In baskets overflowing;
And everywhere I look, I see
That mounds of things are growing.

I guess it’s part of DNA;
You’d know with just a swab,
That either you’re a neat freak
Or the opposite, a slob.

But when I have some company,
(Don’t tell what I’m confiding!)
They’ll marvel at the place –
The clutter’s in the closet, hiding.