Sonnet #405

 We must discuss this crust of stuff

That clusters all around your bed

Abandoned books and bits of mail unread

And tea cups, coffee cups, water cups, stuffed

Effigies of animals, and lost socks, lost shirts

A lonely shoe pushed too far under 

The baleful mess that speaks of blunders

Make your bed, clean your room, dust, flirt

With perfection every day for failing here

Means failing everywhere, every little choice

Accumulates in your little tomb of room, fear

What mysterious archaeologists find to voice

Their judgments of your remains? what spiders

Emerged to defend your cluttered cellars?