Everyday I’m older—
moving much, much slower,
an’ as I grow in time,
I think about this rhythm…
                                                     
 ******

I use to mop on hands an’ knees
which now I cannot do
‘cause getting to the floor,
is like sticking me to glue.

I use to vacuum everyday
to keep the carpets nice—
Now, if I get the chance,
each month, I vacuum twice.

If ever I would see some dust,
it almost drove me mad—
I’ve learned now to cohabitate,
an’ for this, I’m truly glad.

I changed the beds, I washed the clothes,
my windows were so shiny,
but now I’d rather e-mail,
an’ sit upon my hinny.

I’ve tried to figure why I’ve changed—
could it be my age,
or is this just my change of life
morphing to another stage?

I just don’t care about the dirt
hiding in a deep, dark place.
No one ever sees it,
so to me, it’s no disgrace.

If things get somehow out of place,
or the den is just a mess,
I count it all as taking
my perfectionistic test.

I just don’t want to bother
with usual household chores.
I want to go out with my friends,
an’ never be a bore.

Cleaning, dusting, mopping
is such a waste of time,
especially as the days grow near
when God might ring my chime.

Life is just too short, I know,
to waste a single minute.
I can’t be worried ‘bout the mess,
instead, I’m living in it!


 Tamara Hillman
©2009