Dishes are piled high in the sink.
Papers strewn about
(My business for none to see).
Cobwebs frame doorways,
waving, familiarly, in silent clamor.

I walk these floors,
dirt, beneath bare feet,
from many roads taken
and the soles of passersby.

I pass books stacked high on chairs and tabletops.
(No more room on the shelves)
Ones I’ll always remember. Ones I chose to forget. Ones never to be read.

How funny it is to see this place
(This place where I live, rosy-hued),
when the switch is flicked.
God, this place needs a good cleaning!

Catch more of David Estringel from his previous entries:

the ugly writers