Clutter Poem



Love is dripping down the sides of the cup of our relationship…
baby when you and I lose our cool completely
there is no flavor left in the remnants of our glass.
It’s just a ring of condensation on the pages of our past.
We’ve confound space with clutter, and we don’t butter our words…
we just toast each others buns.
Hun the chain of communication is broken.
We even leave arguments unspoken.
Now we throw each other sideways glances
and only give spiteful second chances with mutinous war embedded in our eyes,
cause we don’t trust each other.
So the sun don’t rise in these crescent lips of mine.
It’s just an eclipse in that heart of yours.
The rain pours.
The muddle between us leaves tracks on our carpet
from puddles of soot and water that start to soil our saxony surroundings.
There are abounding boxes and shelving units filled to the brim
with everything that could possibly get in our way.
We have uncovered silence where we feel there are no words left to say.
SO I wrote this list of the frivolous junk that has accumulated in our home
since the day we stopped speaking so much…
The list goes as such:
Seventeen souvenir shot glasses from the airports we’ve passed through.
Twenty-four assorted post cards glued to picture frames…
only ten of which are out on display.
Four stained glass panes you still haven’t placed in our bay front window.
Eight decorative pillows that match our two couches and love seat,
but clash with the drapes I was supposed to take down
in exchange for matching curtain rods.
Three pictures of tropical birds that you swore were a great garage sale bargain.
Two plastic pails full of paint brushes for my new hobby…
an easel, and seven unpainted canvases.
One sterling silver flask with your initials engraved on the side.
I got it for your birthday the year your grandpa died,
six bottles of imported liquor and ten of cheap wine.
A vine shaped rack to place them on.
A new set of unopened glass ware.
A cracked vase, three mardi gras masks.
A trunk full of college memorabilia you’re wiling to sort through,
but the lock is broken.
That stupid coo-coo clock you got from your mom.
A kaleidoscope, several journals, two boxes of vanilla scented soap.
Two boxes of ivory tea light candles,
six bags of fragrant potpourri… I initially intended to only buy three,
but yet another sale… two for the price of one.
a sowing machine with a bench to place it upon,
a garbage bag of old stuffed animals from when I was young,
your toy b.b. gun, a pair of roller blades,
approximately ninety-seven books,
and two encyclopedia set series,
four atlases, a globe,
and sixteen maps of countries you want to visit.
It seems you have an affinity for exotic vacation destinations.
A dinette set, a couple of end tables,
matching floor lamps, one old television set.
Eight black shelving units for cds,
sixty-two bargain priced dvds from the clearance bins at
Wal-mart, Target, and H.E.B.
A pair of binoculars,
five terra-cotta pots, and a bag of planting soil.
An old guitar you swore you were going to get refurbished six months ago.
Three milk crates of vinyl records
an old cassette deck a bag full of tapes,
and twenty-one VHS tapes even though we don’t own a VCR.
You said your brother would lend you his…
whenever we decide to have a movie night.
Which brings me to your prized possession
a professional popcorn maker you bought from an antique shop.
Movie posters galore!!
Seven photo-albums that once belonged to my Aunt June.
Not to mention five extra boxes marked miscellaneous in our living room.
I promise to start removing this collage of crap tomorrow.
But I can’t even part my lips tell you
that the boxes are too heavily laden with a surplus of sorrow.
I won’t lift it all on my own.
My name isn’t U-haul.
This emotional precious cargo can NOT be neatly filed out of our way,
cause it is filled to the brim with words we may never get a chance to say.
We just clutter our space as our hope runs thin.
We have no storage room left in our home to let each other back in.
Maybe next week I will write a few limericks about all the items we horde in our den.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.