Don’t leave that there for me to find.
I’ll never see it, hiding among the dirty dishes and the piles of laundry
dumped out and waiting to be folded
(worn
dumped
washed
dried
dumped
repeat)
and the half-empty ketchup bottle on the counter with the coffee filters
the Pine-Sol stench and the blue toilet water
sensory overload
is the vacuum broken again? The birds need fed.
The mud tracked in might lead me to it,
by way of the checkbook and the appointment reminders
tacked on to the fridge
scribbled in sharpie under David Bowie’s deadpan face
each rectangle numbered
counting up
and starting over
counting down
self-contained and endless
Don’t leave it there
I’ll sweep it up unseen
with the safety pins and the breading from last night’s chicken
and toss it in the trash can
with all the other things
that were never relevant.
