It wasn’t the children; it was
the ever after mess of them.
Breadcrumbs, jam
fingerprints on all the goblets,
shavings from the twigs the boy
carved ceaselessly just like his mother
taught him. Always the sainted mother
with those two. Dust in all the curlicues,
the French Provincial she had favored.
I pleaded, take me to Ikea!
I would have built a bonfire
but for the ash.
It’s so quiet now without them.
Every surface flat and calm
as water in a pail before the wash.
I’ll not lay my feet down on the carpet.
Leave no tracks.