I never make my bed or dump the butts from the ashtray and I don’t even smoke, or replace the burned-out light bulb when one of a pair is bright enough for me, or replace the washer in the leaking faucet and, if I comb my hair, it’s merely by accident.
I can’t bother looking neat and prosperous whether it’s the almost knee-less jeans I wear, the fading Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt, or the mismatched furniture in every room of my apartment.
There has to be a reason to thin out the clutter, drag a green bag of clothes to the laundromat, sweep up those shards of potato chip that outline the kitchen floor.
I don’t know where to go for caring that dirty dishes accumulate in the sink or pizza boxes overwhelm the trash bin, and my shirts have more rings around their collar than the planet Saturn.
Someone suggests I need a good woman. But I had one once. You’ve never seen such dust accumulate.
JohnGrey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Chronogram and Clade Song.