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.
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 email@example.com.