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.