I start to make my bed but stay my hand
and climb beneath the rumpled sheets now cold.
My mouth is dry, my eyes seem filled with sand;
The day is young but all I feel is old.
From here I see just where that quarter rolled,
I scout the spots where dust and mold still hide,
I spy abandoned socks I’ll never fold,
while propped by pillows, lying on my side.
“You’d have a cleaner house if you just tried.”
“Cheer up! There’s nothing wrong,” the others say.
I guess my happy bits of brain are fried
I’ll stay in bed since I can’t face the day.
Feel free to judge my unmade life and bed
And join the shaming chorus in my head.