My Muse Is Under the Credenza

I want to write a poem today but the wood insists on ritual— Pledge and patience, lemon oil, a soft cloth circling what must be remembered. The coffee table’s judging me. The hutch has turned authoritarian. Even the banister is giving me splintery side-eye, and the bureau just rolled its drawers. My muse, naturally, has curled up in the dust bunny beneath the credenza, refusing to come out until the piano gleams. So I write this poem as an act of defiance in the face of domestic tyranny. Screw the chores I say, art matters more anyway.