Once upon a midday dreary, home from working, weak and weary,
Staring with resentment at the “For Sale” sign perched near the door,
While I Facebooked, blogged and Tweeted, on the sofa, softly seated,
Suddenly I felt quite heated, heated staring at the floor.
“Tis an old juice box,” I muttered, “sitting crumpled on the floor-
Garbage there, it makes me sore.”
Ah, so clearly I recall that it was in the chill of fall,
And each separate messy creature wrought its carnage on the floor.
Eagerly I wished a buyer- in my heart there burned desire
To depart the marshy quagmire- husband’s work commute so poor.
Sell our home to some old man who will not mind these schools so poor.
Strapped school budgets, make me sore.
So we found a local guy, while claiming that his expert eye
Boldly- sold me with the thought of selling this unwanted house in four
Days or less, if we could merely rein in all the mess seen clearly
Keep this place pristine, sincerely perfect while it’s on the fore;
On the forefront of the MLS and then, yes, we will score;
Housekeeping, it makes me sore.
For a week my soul soared highly, thinking of a future brightly,
Far away from matchbox madness in a school where art’s taught more
But the fact is I was struggling with two kids and two dogs cuddling
All distraction so befuddling; ordered then to clean the floor.
“We’ve a showing in an hour!” I would yell, and be ignored;
Picking up, it makes me sore.
Days that stretched to weeks now looming, while I stood there darkly brooding,
Wound as tightly as a drum of doom that wasn’t there before.
Tidy for a week was easy, vacuuming twice daily breezy;
Wow, I thought, so easy peasy, why had I not done this more?
Such a clean and shiny house a pleasure, then, to show it more;
Thoughts of dirt, it makes me sore.
Now three offers all rejected, lowball buyers left dejected,
But not so low as I, for all that effort naught to show for tours
Endless footsteps of the masses, none were serious, all jackasses
Mostly neighbors full of crassness, snooping through my drawers and more;
All that effort keeping dog hair clean and swept up off the floor;
Dead inertia, makes me sore.
“Make your beds now!” I demanded, “Dirty dishes now remanded
To the court of no allowance if I spy one from the door!”
Clutter, shoes, and piles of dog bones, neatly stashed despite the loud groans
Making kids work over their moans, all to help us clear the floor;
Small familial price to pay to keep this place clean, nothing more.
Whining children, make me sore.
So to spy that juice box litter, tossed to earth with careless flitter
Filled me with a fury that my cleaning efforts were ignored.
How could children disrespect me, leaving juices circumspectly?
All my teachings, they reject me and my lessons as a bore.
“I had thought I raised you better than my pleadings to ignore!
Naughty children make me sore.”
But they disavowed all dark deeds, taking sides and making stark pleas,
Begging me to reconsider all my claims to add more chores.
“We did nothing! We aren’t guilty!” cherub faces claimed so sweetly,
“Listen here, we do entreaty!” pointing fingers towards the floor.
Towards the large and hairy creature dripping black fur on the floor.
“Unfair claims, they make us sore.”
“Oh, you’re clever,” I allowed, “Your sneakiness, it makes me proud,
Despite the fact that I should be more angry that you’re lying more.
But you must know that the truth is, dogs love food treats, not the juices,
How could Koa even do this, she can’t use a straw. Her four
And furry paws are ill-equipped to hold a juice box on the floor.
Subterfuge, it makes me sore.”
Then my youngest picked the box up, held to light- inspected, said “yup!
Have you looked more closely at the evidence upon the floor?
See the box? The many punctures? I would think that at this juncture
You should seek now new conjecture, looking now, Mom, to the floor.
To the sharp incisors of the hairy creature on the floor.
Being set up, makes me sore.”
Then methought the air grew less fine, perfumed by a nervous canine
Stung by steely glare that meant her crime was coming to the fore.
“Wretch,” I cried, “you tried to prank me- grabbing juices from the pantry
Then you fill the air so dankly, with your foul stench of gore.
Framing those who love you just so you could drink that juice some more,
Fooling me, it makes me sore.”
Then she rose, that dog so sticky, o’er to me, her mom so prickly
Tried to seek forgiveness for the mangled juice box on the floor.
Licking me with apple breath, wondering if I meant death
While I scrubbed the sticky mess, scrubbed the sticky from the floor.
Hoping no one then approached to come inside there on a tour.
No appointments make me sore.
And the Realtor, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pale and pasty concrete stoop outside my house front door.
And his eyes have all the seeming of a tired man that’s dreaming
To an end to all the seething, but he knows he’s facing more
.Will I ever have an end to messy children, dogs, and more?
Quoth the Realtor, “Nevermore.”