A Woman and Two Men.

It’s come to where I can’t help but to finally say,

after biting my tongue for two years’ worth of days,

over things ever done in the stupidest ways,

by the two gentlemen who I call my roommates;

 

the idiocy that shines through each one’s daily moves,

leaves me stuck there on stupid like gum on a shoe,

instead of applying any logic to the shit that they do,

they form a tempest of absurdity and sweep right on through;

 

it would kill either one to rinse his cereal bowl,

       before impetuously stacking them in a mile-high row,

right next to the sink where they good and well know,

that I will wash them in order to see out the kitchen window;

 

dirty camping trip laundry and mildewed swim trunks,

overflowing garbage cans that appear to have blown up,

my family room is littered with dollar bills and empty cups,

my back yard decorated with engine oil and cigar butts;

 

and, though I know it isn’t born of grandiosity,

and that my boys must suffer from what’s sheer stupidity,

neither one seems bothered by existing so confusedly,

one day attaches to the next with such mindless simplicity;

 

bottles left on the front porch step when the trash can is nearby,

things that make such little sense that I often want to cry,

toilet seat ever-up, missing socks, poison oak in both my eyes,

stains and spots, rotting apricots, and the associated flies;

 

they hardly wonder why people say that I mother them,

it’s like I live with two schoolboys, ages eight and ten,

any alternative to the drill is hard to let myself imagine,

and so, it goes, the side-show starring a woman and two men.