The Urologist

You come highly recommended as the person in town to help me get my house in order. Like most, my intimate real estate is jumbled and needs a designer’s eye. I suffer from interstitial clutter. Harried, I leave bits and bobs lying around where they don’t belong. The stakes are high. I’ve heard hoarder whispers. You suggest a waste flow chart for the refrigerator. Gold stars for remembering the recycling. My kids are gone and fledged, but their ghosts still haunt the house, little stitches of tension. I carried them, baby on a hip, always on the right. The halls have well-worn streaks on the same side. The kitchen is a colander. The pipes have burst under the sink. Yellowed water is streaming down the cupboard walls. As you bend down to check it out, you tell the world’s oldest plumbing joke. You know, some cracks just can’t be fixed.