The Boys are
elsewhere.
I am home
Alone.
Every surface is
piled high.
Books
toys
dirty dishes
three gloves
(where did the other one go?)
I could...
watch TV
work out
call my sister
write some more
read a book.
But disorder
makes me itch.
Living with my Boys
means I always
itch.
So I clean.
Legos under the playtable.
Cozy throws folded.
Find a home for new birthday toys.
Two hours
and done.
The first floor, at least.
But I am lonely now.
No evidence of
Boys.
Anyone might live here.
I take out the legos again.
Build something tall
with wheels.
Leave it in the middle of the floor.
There.
Now it is home again.
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