There's something under my bed.
Correction: there are many things under my bed.
Whether it's day or night,
Whether I'm hungry or fed,
Whether I've gone for a run or have done the dishes instead
There's something under my bed and it needs to be said:
That every day I avoid an inevitable dread,
The dirty secret of an otherwise cozy homestead.
I'm sure there are hair ties and a couple of books
(The kind that were really not worth second looks);
Perhaps a shirt I'd deemed "lost" and a random shoe box,
A has-been computer and some neon flip-flops.
Some recyclable mail from 2016,
A worn-out sports bra that is best left unseen,
A beat-up pillow that I felt bad throwing away,
Some sunglasses that never saw the sunlight of day.
A gift-with-purchase that I never did need,
An earring that's missing one or two beads.
A prescription bottle with no contents or top,
All nestled in this area in dire need of a mop.
Yes, they lay here together as the dust procreates,
All purchased with a fervor that yielded no certain fate.
So as I acknowledge its existence and get on hands and knees,
Armed with a cross and a broom and mug full of caffeine,
I take another look under my otherwise welcoming bed,
And decide to stand up and say, "To hell with it: I'll call the housekeeper instead."
