There are too many books in this room.
Too many cat and kitten figurines.
Too many cats. Too many scraps of
paper. Too many projects pending.
Too much congestion—traffic, sinuses, heart.
I’m good at starting things; not so good
about ending them. When, oh when, will
my desk become clutter-free? When will
I ever see the warm dark oak grain
of its wood? Too many things kept at
hands reach. Too many words I don’t know
how to spell. Too many dictionaries
to tell me. Too many poems that
start with good intentions. Too many
others that lose their way. Too many
like this one, looking for inspiration.
