Entropy

You know that moment in movies
when the main character,
having spent day and night
chasing a murderer,
conquering demons,
saving lives,
comes home to their
high rise apartment
with its wall of windows
and stands,
drink in hand,
looking out over the city,
pondering?

Have you ever noticed
how that apartment
is so perfectly clean?
No sink full of dirty dishes,
no unmade bed,
no pile of laundry on the couch.

Who cleans that place?
Who pays the bills?
Who spends forty-five minutes
on hold with the insurance company
only to be disconnected?

Because, to be honest,
there are many days
I spend consumed
in these unglamorous
but necessary tasks.

It’s a truth about adulthood
that nobody ever told me,
one about which
I never warned my children.

The only demon I am conquering
is entropy.
The only thing I am saving
is this tiny household
from drowning
in debris and paperwork.

Which is why, I suppose,
there is no camera crew
following me around
and why I watch movies
about a fantasy world
where characters live free
from real life details.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith