I put in place

All that you’ve strewn

All over the floor.

I fix the things

That you innocently

Broke, tore or damaged.

I shut the door

So that I can work in solitude

But you must enter…

I sigh… I wonder…

There must be a design

To daily disturbances and infiltration.

Let’s not go by the mere appearances

Of your transgressions

And my consequent upset.

It is the play of love

To demand attention and then,

To be fulfilled in giving it.