He bangs through the door,
“Work shirts! WORK SHIRTS!”
I shrug my shoulders;
no point in stating the obvious.
There are more dirty dishes
stacked up on the kitchen counters
than clean ones in the cabinets.
The clothes hamper in the bathroom
towers high as my chest.
He has just used the last clean towel.
and grant writing proofs,
gasp for secure purchase on the computer table.
Flash card detritus
and fabric remnants
blanket the floor.
Sleep comes like the west Texas weather,
absent from imagination’s horizon,
then swamping the shoreline of consciousness,
Synesthetic braille dots
force a foreign order
on my dreams,
tactile communication flooded with color,
I fall though memory’s trapdoor
to early childhood,
struggling to control letter formation with an oversized pencil,
letters that pushed and pulled,
attracted and repelled,
like recalcitrant magnets
beneath blunt lead,
despite physical commitment to my Big Chief tablet,
warred and frolicked through my taxed retina,
defying static relationship.
The “e” in print is a plundering brute;
The “e” in braille is musical and light.
He has found a shirt
and left for work
with a smile trace.
previously unsettled by his rampage,
are again lounging.
I have filled the kitchen sink with soapy water;
dishes soak in anticipation.
The empty washing machine awaits a load;
the laundry he has hurled into the dog run during his frantic search
I will continue to ignore the floor,
as its state is self-perpetuating.
I will take a moment for imposing order
into brailled chaos.