I sift through the remnants
they’ve left behind
without regard for their worth.
Broken, scattered, rotting.
Trails of things they’ve
no longer use for
lead me to where
they have been.
Finding what I thought
to be lost, stolen in secret
while my back was turned.
In dark corners and
cobweb covered recesses,
I know not what lay hidden.
Fearing what may be found
I retreat, it can wait another day.

They can clean their own damn rooms.

Crystal R. Cook