In the land of plotting and writing each day,
A man sauntered into my kitchen
To whisk some of my stresses away.
A good hearted man, gentle and kind.
Who set about rearranging my cabinets.
Not a measuring cup nor knife can I find.
Where the toaster once sat, Mr. Coffee resides.
I'm grateful for the help, I really am.
He shops, he cooks, he cleans--
And moves the dishes, pots and pans.
My Lord, I can't even find a can of beans.
The canister for macaroni is now filled with nuts.
Every side of the counter has a salt and pepper set of its own.
In the cabinet where I once stored glasses, coffee mugs he puts.
There's no sugar in the canister; it's spaghetti, broken.
He's moved onto the laundry room.
Folks, don't even get me started.
A falling jug of fabric softener makes a hellofa boom.
Mopping it requires a mop and language that can't be parted.
His unfolded underwear is jammed into drawers,
And my nightgowns hung on hangers.
His socks rolled from his feet are washed and dried in balls.
I love him dearly, so I've learned to ignore the man in my kitchen using vinegar and Dawn to mop my floors.
Learn more about my writing at www.vonniedavis.com
