Sonnet #112

I guess I should write a poem, now
I have a moment in between chores
All morning, I was in the garden, mow
the lawn and prune back, mop the floor
There were dishes, bathrooms, dirty clothes
All the things that let us know we are alive
Is found in the mess we leave in piles and rows
Trailed like breadcrumbs in our wake, we strive
To keep the mess picked up, we make lists and throw
ourselves upon the list, we never quite arrive
At perfection, always one more thing, sisyphian stones
Built up and up we climb, and exhausted, write a poem

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