May 2 by The Running Son
The ex ain’t coming to clean your room
Jesus. My room.
It’s a damn mess
best grab you broom
and the whole damn cleaning chest
You tune the radio
I’ll remove my shadow
to wait on the patio.
You brew your magic
I’ll brew up
of “I’m glad
I just found out my ex Di, can’t come to clean my room. And I’m pissed. Not at her though, at her employer, my ex-uncle-in-law-to-be. Don’t ask. It’s a story I wouldn’t recite for God Himself if he tried threaten it out of me. Too complex… too tiring.
Except she works for him. Bastard. I have a lot of respect for him, but dammit.
My mother is a hoarder. And it’s some Freudian bullshit that I run head-on into a psychological wall whenever I try to clean organize or downsize.
I was up half the night writing a new poem, A Union of Opposites, which wore me out more emotionally than any writing ever did. I am in no place to take this disaster on.
So I wrote a poem about it too, above. Didn’t do crap for my avalanche of a room, but it blurred the edges a little. I can squint my eyes and visualize how it will look the next time Di get’s time off to come by.
The poetry never ceases.