Messy House

My book should be on the counter. My remote should be on the side table. They aren’t. Then I get home, Only to have trouble sleeping. I go downstairs for a glass of water. They’re all dirty. I find the book on the floor, Where I left it. I read about some place that is clean and organized. I fall asleep on the couch. When I wake up again, I’m late and can’t find my keys. I placed the book where it belongs. But the remote is on the floor, still. I like to read. To leave my house, mentally. I don’t like to actually leave. When I do, I simply want to go back home. To enjoy the mess that is familiar to me.