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I live a life of semiconstant squalor;
Not dirty, no, never unclean like that,
No clothing heaped up with a rumpled collar,
No grime, no bugs. But everything that's flat
Bears a constant burden: mostly books,
But also games and papers, mementos,
Computer hardware, tools for busy cooks,
And boxes, piled up in rows and rows,
Always exceed all the space pertaining
To normal storage, even when I buy
More than what seems enough for what's remaining.
Even then I pile to the sky
And watch whomever enters back away
With wonder in their eyes mixed with dismay.