A Sestina Rant

Wet towels left on the bathroom floor,
Toenail clippings under the cushions of the couch,
Broken, eraser-less pencils, my size ten feet,
Loose buttons and zippers that stick
Arriving just moments after the traffic light changes red,
Arriving home after dark, fumbling to find the slot for the key.

Late of a morning, running in frantic search of the car key,
Orange juice spilt on the kitchen floor.
Paper cuts, especially those I don’t notice that bleed red
Onto the arm of the still-too-new-for-stains couch.
There’s the bedroom door that sticks
And sleepless winter nights I suffer with cold (size ten) feet.

That I, an educated woman, fail to grasp poetic meter (in feet)
That I lack the confidence to remove from my key ring a key
That opens nothing anymore. What’s wrong with me? I’m a stick
In the mud tracking footprints over the poorly-installed linoleum floor
As I cross to the family room to find the afghan rumpled up, left on the couch,
One arm cover of which, despite my cleaning diligence, holds the faintest red.

That I’m too old, my face too lined for hair the color red,
That arthritis has spread from thumbs to knees to feet
So that without kneeling I fail to reach the dust balls under the couch,
That my favorite old hymns are written in the most difficult of keys,
That despite my caution, water overflowing the plants’ pots stained the hardwood floor
And speaking of old, that envelopes matching my note cards have lost their stick.

In the sink the dirty pot to which rice sticks,
Robbing me of precious time with the newspaper I would have read
Earlier had it not been for the recycling and towels tossed on the floor.
The injustice that I, too, will develop bunions on my feet--
As if the arthritis isn’t bad enough-- is key
To the sense of defeat that leads me to the couch,

Where I remember another stain, one on the underside of the cushion on the couch,
A stain he stupidly tried to remove with a bleach stick.
That even with my reading glasses I cannot read the street names on the map key.
So it isn’t the glasses. That even when I steal a few minutes I don’t get much read
Before I fall asleep. That I buy only sensible shoes for my feet,
That one day I’ll have to consider moving the washer and dryer to the ground floor.

That the key wardrobe advice to dress in bright colors like red
Will one day fall with “No eating on the couch” and “Sandals hurt the feet”
Into the abyss of drivel that no longer sticks in my mind as I rant shuffling in my bedroom slippers across the stained hardwood floor.