My House Tells a Story.

My house tells a story.

I bet yours does, too.

There are tales of imaginary glory

and indescribable goo.

There’s a rabbit who died valiantly

in his effort to overcome

the evil dump truck dictator

who treated him like scum.

There’s evidence of mighty earthquakes

of the toddler variety,

as colorful towers and building blocks

are strewn about wildly.

A ruined and soggy magazine

declares the baby was here.

Here love affair with all things paper

will bring indigestion I fear.

There are handmade halloween decorations

taped upon the walls.

That’s right. I said halloween.

Don’t judge. They wish it was still fall.

The sticky spot on my kitchen floor

tells a mysterious tale.

What it is and how it got there?

I’m guessing dinner fail.

The clear trail through a mound of toys

tells things of daring-do.

A toddler daring to dump things out

even when I told him not to.

Under every piece of furniture

you are sure to find

that puzzle piece, that bouncy ball

and cereal of every kind.

The diapers, wipes, shoes and socks

in places they shouldn’t be.

With everyone else blind to disorder,

the only one to pick it up is me.

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