Okay, I admit it. Sometimes I nag.
Sometimes Alex asks, "Why did I marry that hag?"
When the dishes pile high,
and rumpled laundry makes me sigh,
and mess covers every surface under the sky,
I can't help but blurt out, Why?
Is this really my piece of the Pie?
Will my bespectacled, black-dress editor dream ever fly?
Why did they color there with that sharpie?
Do they like it when out comes my inner harpy?
I nag kids until my throat is dry,
I nag husband until glaze covers each eye,
And then, when my energy is completely spent,
from worrying and whining, as is my bent,
the small ones ask me to build them a tent.
And I do.
And they disappear happily from view.
And I feel calm and new.