Maybe Tomorrow
Maybe tomorrow I say as I lift the garage doors
I do not want my neighbors to see this hovel
But one runs over to see if it is a garage sale
Before I can close it.
She points to something she wants.
I give it to her.
Another runs over to ask to borrow my lawnmower.
That frees up a space I could use to sort, out of the sun,
so I tell her, "Keep it as long as you like."
Some teenagers walk by and laugh, pointing.
I want to stick out my tongue, but that would be childish, right?
I do it any way.
They laugh harder.
My husband comes out. "Find any mice yet?"
This really makes me want to clean this mess.
I remember last summer when a bag started moving
And a fountain of mice rose to the top and flowed out
Running in all directions.
I close the garage.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe not.
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2019
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