Happiness is never overrated.
—Justin Chin
In trying to make my room more habitable,
I spill a bunch of milk chocolate—you know,
the kind you squeeze into milk to turn it into
chocolate milk—behind what I call my book
shelf, which actually does harbor a few books,
but also has boxes of tiny items that have come
from electronics such as computers and phones
(also one folded keyboard protector), it has a
stack of clean clothes of various types, it has
all of my coffee and lemonade fixings, and it
has a little tub filled with things I use to clean
things like spilt milk chocolate, like Mr. Clean,
like a can of air, like a spray bottle of water, and
for reasons that are not logical (exactly) it has a
plastic container filled with colorful blank notes
(no sticky on these notes, they are not Post-Its),
as well as a spray can of Glade freshener, which
I think advertises that it smells like lavender, and
which I’ve used quite a bit lately, mostly because
I’ve been doing my laundry in my tiny little place,
and the odors that come from that tedious process
are quite hideous to me. This tub sits next to my
dustbin and my horsehair brush, which I use as a
broom, and all of that fits in one of the six cubes
that this “bookshelf” has within its plywood
architecture. On top of this shelf are the books
that I’ve read, the ones I’ve read since I lost all
of the books I read up until a certain point.
Which was basically sometime shortly after
I turned fifty. There aren’t very many, but
the width of the the books on this ‘bookshelf’
is growing, and eventually, maybe, I’ll have
another large bookshelf, maybe even two
or three like I did before, that housed all of
the poetry books alone that I had and had
read at least once at one time or another.
Well, I’ve pulled this shelf away from the wall
where last night I halfway cleaned up the milk
chocolate. Guess what I have to do this morning?
Yep, clean up the rest of the mess of milk chocolate
that is still splotched next to my bookshelf and desk,
against the eastern wall of my little hotbox, which is
what I call the little place I live. But what am I doing
now? Well, I’m stalling by reading poetry, of course.
the poetry books alone that I had and had
read at least once at one time or another.
Well, I’ve pulled this shelf away from the wall
where last night I halfway cleaned up the milk
chocolate. Guess what I have to do this morning?
Yep, clean up the rest of the mess of milk chocolate
that is still splotched next to my bookshelf and desk,
against the eastern wall of my little hotbox, which is
what I call the little place I live. But what am I doing
now? Well, I’m stalling by reading poetry, of course.
