Inside My Husband's Closet
By My Husband's Wife (Me)
Inside my husband's closet there are clothes for all occasions:
Work and play and sports and even lawnmower invasions.
Two rows for the items that need hanging and an iron,
And shelves for the stuff that can be folded and then piled on.
Sweaters he has owned for years and socks that need some darning,
White t-shirts in numbers that I count until I'm yawning.
Dress shirts in every color of the most splendid corporate rainbow,
Ties and belts that could attach to one holy dressed-up halo.
There's the t-shirt he bought in law school, at that bar he once went to!
Hey, I found a hunting vest stuffed in my dad's old shoe!
Did L.L. Bean decide to dump its extra vests right over here?
Why does Wal-Mart only sell him clothing decorated with a beer?
I spy with my little eye some neon he wore on a run last year.
Now I'm drowning in a pile of boxers - my voice can you hear?
What's a toolbox doing next to that picture of him as a kid?
Is there any better use for that discarded plastic lid?
All this stuff is just exploding into every open space.
A metal wire has just scratched a deep gash in my face.
A closet needs order and rules for where everything belongs,
The confusion that reigns right now is wrong, very wrong.
I wash and fold the laundry and I'd like to put it away,
But I open the door to that closet and I am kept at bay.
I cannot fight the riot in the undergarments section,
And the pile of his pants is something I would rather not now mention.
I'm at the end of my rope, the camel's back is broken.
If that closet's not cleaned up the kids and I are moving to Hoboken.
The problem's more than laundry and looks, oh don't you see?
Because worst of all, that closet he's destroyed....
He shares it with me.
Every time I need a dress or a sweatshirt 'cause it's cold,
I have to push aside those shorts for gardening, or so I'm told.
I would be fine with some added fortune and a bit of fame,
But a featured spot on Hoarders is not how I want to spread my name.
Inside my husband's closet resides my closet too.
Inside my husband's closet there's a mess, that's nothing new.
Inside my husband's closet there's a project of huge proportions.
Inside my husband's closet is the germ of this extortion.
Ignore my requests to clean it, go ahead, keep ignoring.
I'll draft a poem in my head while beside me you are snoring.
I will publish that ditty on my blog for all to read.
Now your dirty laundry's public, what other motivation do you need?