Poem

My Room

I don't want to clean my room.
I want to make a snack—
some toast with jam,
an ice-cold plum,
and don't forget my nap.

I don't want to clean my room.
I want to write a poem.
Or ride my bike out to the lake,
or just be left alone.

I don't want to clean my room.
Who says that it's a mess?
A heap of clothes sits on my bed—
to that I will confess.

I don't want to clean my room.
But it's hard to find a path.
To walk around this cluttered ground,
feels like I'm doing math.

So I don't want to clean my room.
But let me pick that up—
and clear this off
and wipe those down.
OK, that seems enough.

No, I don't want to clean my room.
But it looks as if I did.
It's almost done,
and it was kinda fun.
You know I love to kid.

Because when my room is clean,
when everything's just so,
I feel at ease—
Hey, look, my keys!—
no matter where I go.