My closet is a cleaner’s dream

a nightmare, truly

stuffed with sweaters, pants, skirts;

two full closets of dresses all

hung so tightly impossible to pull one out.

On the bottom are shoes- a hundred pairs I guess,

all shapes and colors for day and night,

in hot or cold weather. Handbags dangle

from broken rungs thrown willy-nilly

on side walls: big ones for computers, small ones

for carrying cash and a lipstick–colors that match

every outfit I own and others I don’t.

I dream of clothes of all colors, with blouses

and scarves to match. Even underwear must match,

it,  too gets thrown wherever it can fit.

Every year I organize,

everything has a place,

and in 2 months,

it’s a mess.

I can’t win these days,

I won’t even try.

Just close the door

and breathe. It’s not yours

it’s mine.