A Middle Road
Clutter upsets me.
I internalize trip-overs and misplaced mathom
Into anthropomorphic indigestion.
Empty sterility irritates me.
My fingers itch to paint Georgia O’Keefe flowers
On hard white walls.
Possessions bother me.
I close my eyes and see them lined up
Whining for attention.
Poverty frightens me.
I see it lurking behind each uncertain decision
My hand to its mouth.
May I find a middle road with no shadows,
With just enough clutter to make it interesting,
With flowers on either side.