My home is sick.
Please come and fix.

The phone cries,
The tele sobs,
And the bell curses.

Brooms fight,
The CDs prattle,
The cosmetics are vain,
And the mirror lies.

The gates veer wildly,
Scaring all the goodness,
that comes from outside.

My dog moans,
And my turtle gives a helpless shrug.
A wise soul he is.

The plants wailed,
Rooted when they were out,
Now twigs and spoils,
Sum up their memories.

The garden now forgotten,
Deserts the swing that now creaks,
Creak - an unliving sound,
because dead things don't speak.

The only peace in the eating chaos,
is found in my bottles,
That I nurture and love.
I caress their necks,
when I open them to quaff their contents,
And bathe them with my own hands,
for they bear cool liquids,
that I consume and relish.

Annoyed with a pout,
And confused with a squint,
I ask the Angel that keeps my home,
"Why, O Why? Why O scholarly and all knowing spirit,
do most things give me grief and fluster,
And only some give wanton joy,
When they all ought to keep a young boy safe,
and help him get through the whimsical adolescent years?"

The muddled genie reacts -
"Thou shalt reap what thou hast sown"
"And what thou hast doth to others, so shalt be doth upon thou"

I walk myself out of the conversation,
disheartened and addled.
Angry at hearing bad and meaningless sentences,
I rue Shakespeare's curst birth unto this planet.

Now I am doing it, I groan.



Then suddenly,
Out of the thinnest of thoughts,
I touch my growing belly,
And feel its softness and warmth.
The soothing, greasy expanse,
Gives me courage and clarity.

I wonder why my belly looks so nice?
Because I love it!
And I treat it with buttermilk and sausage galore!

I would never understand the adult world,
its cajoling and violent selfishness.
But I now know,
That there is a little boy in everything I see.

I then kiss the phone,
Smile at the tele,
And pet the tired bell.

I pat my dog,
Smell his funny nose.
I chat with the turtle,
and listen to his wise utterings.

I thank everything I have,
and everything that has me.
Love can be gifted,
only to be returned in a shinier ribbon,
But only when It is.

I open my mouth,
feel the gaps in my teeth,
and loudly welcome the tepid sunlight in my tongue .

I'm cheerful as a free worker bee,
I'm chirpy as a fuzzy cricket,
All the season tunes sing love for me,
And so, so happy is my song,

But come now everybody,
come on,
everybody now take a few hits,
Take a Few hits from the bong.