Calling all sages to answer a riddle
why is it always when I'm in the middle
of sorting my papers and bobbles and books
and tidying up all my crannies and nooks
I find myself scurrying this way and that
distracted, fragmented,my efforts fall flat
while dreaming of freedom found in a clean slate
I wake up still chained by the clutter I hate.
At home or at work the conundrum remains
I print, copy, sort and start over again.
Some pieces of paper I've handled so much
I'm worried they'll soon fall apart at my touch.
They come out from bins, from baskets and cases
spread out over desks, floors, available spaces
So patiently waiting for my disposition
they welcome with joy each new printed edition.
Then panic ensues, there is company coming
I kick into high gear, all cylinders humming
It all gets heaped back into its hiding place,
It looks like it's vanished without any trace.
There's no fooling me, as I know where it's hiding
I can't shut out ongoing internal chiding
But then joy of joys, I find some time to spare
Will I clean or sort or turn quickly to prayer?
Despite claims of wanting a clean peaceful home,
the answer is obvious; I've written this poem.