With apologies to William Stafford
What’s In My Journal
Twenty million notes to self on pastel-colored Post-its –
GET MILK, CALL VET, PAY MORTGAGE.
Maybe I should have one that says
WRITE MORE INTERESTING NOTES TO SELF.
All Things Considered, sippy cups half-filled with day-old milk,
that rotund little dictator Sir Topham Hatt
(Such a know-it-all)
My son’s robotic dancing
both spectacular and bizarre.
My husband’s towers of library books
threatening to collapse at any moment
and kill one of the cats.
(I kind of want those cats dead sorry there I said it.)
And speaking of death let’s not forget the pathetic patch of grass
we call the front yard
and that we frantically keep on life support.
Maybe we should pull the plug…
(After all, it’s just grass.)
And I must acknowledge
the toasty warm sheets
birthed out of the dryer
in the late hours of the evening.
I want to sink into them
and fall asleep, but
I fold them again and again and again and again and again…
I’ll fold them forever
because I’m a grown-up
and grown-ups do laundry
and write boring notes to self.
(It’s okay. It happens to everyone.)