My mom would collect my laundry, so I wouldn’t have to do.

Any plates or forks in my room, she would get those, too.

My room was pretty messy, but she’d always clean it up.

I never picked up the pop cans or bottles, or any drink cup.

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My clean clothes would be in a basket, folded in the best away.

The items would sit on the floor, until she put them away.

Mom would run the vacuum, I don’t even know how it worked.

She would ask me to make my bed, but even that I shirked.

So that’s how it went, for all my school grades.

I didn’t have to clean or dust, Mom’s effort never fades.

And now I’m out of the house, with lots now to do.

But how to clean up after myself? Well, I don’t have a clue.

The Post Bulletin publishes poetry by local and area writers every Monday. Send poems to Meredith Williams at