A poem for children, about a very, VERY messy room
|He likes collecting little things
like cat's-eye marbles, click-pen springs,
and buttons made of shiny brass
or bits of broken windshield glass.
He’s got a giant sneaker box
that's spilling over Lego blocks—
another box is heaped again
with plastic ninja army men.
Ten zillion Matchbox cars or more
are parked across the bedroom floor,
ensnared in rush-hour bottleneck
because Darth Vader caused a wreck.
This corner holds six whittled sticks,
fine wizard wands for magic tricks.
That closet harbors hand-drawn clues
on treasure maps stashed in his shoes.
At least two drawers are packed with rocks
like robin eggs in nests of socks.
So much more stuff than you'd suppose
can hide in freshly laundered clothes,
like playing cards and good-luck charms,
assorted missing Barbie arms ...
but if dead beetles raise your hair,
then don't poke through the underwear.
I frown and wrinkle up my nose
as his collection grows and grows.
I scold, "This mess has got to stop
or else your room is going to pop!"
Within the piles, I hear him say,
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll clean today.
I'll organize each drawer and shelf,
as soon as I can find myself!"
UTSPS 2013, Category 33, 2nd honorable mention
NFSPS 2014, Category 37, 4th honorable mention