Past Perfect

Every time I'm home there is a minute
When I don't see the messiness or dust
When my own home and everything that's in it
Is perfect, and I have no wanderlust.
And then it fades, and I am once again
Caught in reality, aware of the decay
Of entropy between what was well then
And what age made it after everyday.
I see the grime that I could not scrub off,
The soapscum clinging to the kitchen sink,
The trashbin still unemptied, and I scoff
At anyone who had the balls to think
That it was perfect. But it was, to me,
In that arriving singularity.