She busies herself within the house
reorganizing the inner structure
to an inner mental map she has
in her head
that's always changing.
Her hands do not idle,
her feet do not keep still.
A cupboard here, a bed there,
Here today and gone somewhere tomorrow.
Anything that collects dust is but a parasite
Anything that is too messy
that is too untidy
that is too unpleasant for the eyes
is immediately snatched up and
thrust into a storage space.
A cupboard
A drawer
A box
Does it matter where?
Like water in its liquid form,
that's ever changing to conform to its bearer
wearing me down
I'm tired.
Your house. Not mine.
