Entropy
The leaf lying,
the box unopened.
It’s not as if you
ignore them.
They’re right there—
you don’t
dispute that—
on the floor.
Pin oak, brown,
brittle. Probably,
because you haven’t
touched it. For
all you know
it’s velvety.
You ordered
whatever is
in that box
over a year ago.
Bad year.
Or two.
Is that it? Two
bad years have
broken you?
Irrevocably?
You can’t bend
over and pick
up that leaf, put
it in the bin,
toss it out the door?
Aren’t you even
curious? About
what’s in the box?
Maybe it’s
Schrodinger’s
cat. Or something
perishable.
Is it finally
too much trouble
to take control
of your rooms?
A hard no?
A shrug?
You’s less
than useless.
Editor’s Note: This poem’s cutting attitude skillfully showcases how heartbreakingly easy it is to hate oneself, and how difficult it is to look beyond the personal foibles (and possible ADHD) that can make life so unfortunately frustrating.
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