I was having a conversation with my friend about how often I clean and she mentioned that my house must be spotless…but it isn’t. I always have something to clean or improve, but it gave me an idea for this poem:
A spotless home is hard to find,
each day leaving pieces scattered behind
in rooms where clothes lie draped on chairs
left by tired arms too weak to care
about the closet and the empty hanger there.
Spotless eludes the bathroom too,
toothpaste that missed the sink decorates the counter top
in perfect unspotless minty spots,
the mirror reflects busy faces
and also shows that toothpaste has landed in other places.
Oh no, the kitchen does not escape
the dishrag limp and damp, losing shape
as it tries to hide the stains from last night’s meal
and the garbage disposal coughs up old vegetable peels.
Blankets and pillows lie perfectly still and cool
left tossed after the morning alarm
and covered in last night’s drool.
No matter how often you vacuum and dust and wash and clean,
a spotless home will never be seen.