Clutter Psalm

The glass of water, half-gone, teetering.

I knocked it, a small, wet shuddering

across the veneer. A landscape of neglect.

The lipstick-stained mug, cold coffee dregs.

A paperback, spine broken, dog-eared page

where I last lost myself, or tried to.

An old receipt, faded to a ghost of ink,

for something I don't remember, don't think

I even wanted. And this bobby pin,

twisted, black, a forgotten sin

or a tiny, lost ambition.

A thin film of dust, a testament

to how long I've been here, bent

over myself. This altar of small things,

private and mundane, what my illness brings

to focus. Each item, a weight, a small plea.