5 Kids And Laundry Poem by T.R. James Bray

This adapted mind map I live,
keeps popping up and asking me to adjust
So, I do.
The limits of my mental flexibility become obvious
I am stiff and old, burdened.
Thought processes are ridged, firm
The creative ice cream rivers that used to flow
over young fingers on clutched cones now drop, weakly.
Splatters of dried expectation laying on the searing cement.
Covering my imagination's hopscotch lines,
speckling and obscuring its sidewalk rainbows.
Even my rainbows have changed color.
They aren't as bright
But deeper, richer.
Like the scent of good Indian take away,
just as you open the bag.
A wave of culinary centuries fills your imagination
and you are sent, moving like a tiger in the jungle.
Stalking wild boar as curry clouds gather
to rain legacy on your plate.
Then my mind maps a quick exit
Out of the jungle, down to the laundry
where socks curl up in a den of towels, waiting to cross this river mundane
and lather under the obligation waterfall.
Only to reemerge as half truths
and wait to find the destination,
only nimble fingers and dancing thumbs
can dare to caress into an organized pile.
Waiting for pick up.
Waiting for anything.