Packing

Strewn,
Articles of clothing,
Packages which once contained,
Toothpaste, insect repellent, socks.
Amidst this,
The detritus of everyday,
The clothes of yesterday,
Maintaining some of my body's shapes.
Shredded vertically.
A cold cup of tea,
The cream a stagnant scum.
Bed unmade,
And around the room,
Piles,
In their multitudes.
Piles that make sense,
Like with like.
Piles that are a cacophony of clutter.
And beneath one of these,
My bags half packed.

Chained to the sink.

Cooking up a storm,
Cyclone Tracy,
Post Christmas seventy-four.
My kitchen is laid waste.
But unlike Darwin,
The mess requires only a little elbow grease,
And I have more to show for it than flattened stilt houses.
Currant jelly.
A shoulder of goat in white wine and rosemary.
Mutton pie,
And from that colossus of the garden,
The veg that can neither be named or given away,
Zucchini slice and a zucchini chocolate cake.
Yes a fine bounty but the cost.
An inordinate amount of,
" You're soaking in it!"
And wiping of bench and tabletops.
Chained to the sink.

Washing up

Billie the baby is six years old.
She is just finishing her diary entry.
"How do you spell Miss Mandy?"
She asks.
Her grip is correct and her writing deft and efficient.
As a teacher and her Mum,
I feel a bubble of pride warm my chest.
Now what to do?
Her earnest little face asks.
"Would you like to help me with the dishes?"
Her answer beams from her face,
And my chest again re-inflates.
Aprons donned and a small chair reversed acts as stool.
The rinse water, child's blood-warm.
She uses a bottle washer to help the rinsing process.
And carefully places each glass and utensil into the dish rack,
Up side down.
She is meticulous.
I watch the mid morning sun pick up the flecks in the rinse water.
I breath in and inwardly smile,
At this perfect Summer idyll.

Billie-Grace Car Washing Service.

Her big blue eyes, that are mine,
Look at me through the windscreen.
On the bonnet, her five year old hands are rubbing at the glass.
She has a damp nappy, that was once hers.
I feign sleep so I can observe her without further engagement.
She is busy,
Making small smearing circles.
Her hard work is not effective,
Yet she persists.
Her tongue pushes about her mouth in the same circles.
She is concentrating hard.
As she returns the washcloth to the bucket.
I watch her lips form the shape of a song.
She is singing while she works.

Overwhelming Chore of Cleaning One's Room

She just can't come to terms with the steps,
To her chest of drawers,
To her laundry basket,
To her desk and bookshelf.

Her bed is a repository for her life's detritus,
A dirty sock,
Numerous books,
Pencils, pens, a teddy or two.
And more than one pair of slept-in pyjamas.

She lies amidst the myriad of knick-knacks,
Torn and scrunched paper and discarded clothing.
The mental challenge of coming up with a plan,
Deciding just where to begin,
To tidy this mess,
Of her own making,
Is TOO much.