What’s In My Journal

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.)

 

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