The unpacking continues as we get settled into our new home. To commemorate (commiserate?) the occasion, I wrote a poem. A long poem.

My apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.

‘Twas two weeks after moving, and all through the house,

Sat unopened boxes. I started to grouse.

“I can’t find anything,” I said. “There’s stuff here and there.

And I’m pretty much out of underwear.”

My wife was all frazzled and growing grim,

“Quit yer whining,” she said. “Are you really that dim?

We’ve moved many times, it’s never been fun,

But do a little each day and then we’ll be done.”

I did my best to smile but I simply could not,

I said, “You’re right, dear.” But that’s not what I thought.

My anger was high and my patience was fleeting,

I was certain each night that the boxes were breeding.

The worst was the kitchen, too many plates and glasses,

All this unpacking is really busting our rear ends.

Three sets of Christmas dishes? What’s that about?

My mood sank again. I started to pout.

A dropped box of cooking utensils made such a clatter,

My wife sprang from her office to see what was the matter.

Away to the kitchen she flew like a flash,

“What in the world was that deafening crash?”

“No big deal,” I said. “Nothing was broken.”

“I wasn’t sure,” she replied, “based on the words I heard spoken.”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” I said. “A bit of profanity,

But at this point it’s all that’s saving my sanity.”

I whistled and shouted and called them by name,

A blender, a mixer, a toaster and oven mitts,

Some pots, some pans, I was falling to bits.

To the top of the cabinet, the bottom of the drawer,

Go away! Go away! There can’t be much more.

But after a while, things began to improve.

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad move.

The mountains of cartons were decidedly less,

But where my underwear was, I still had no guess.

The end was in sight, I began to have hope,

I’d make it through this, I’d learned how to cope.

And then my wife said, “But don’t forget, hon,

There’s stuff to assemble before we’ll be done.

Put these things together, but first read the manuals.”

“I can do that if you’ll get more Jack Daniels.”

She spoke not a word, but went back to her work,

Okay. Maybe she spoke. She called me a jerk.

I sprang to my shop, I needed a ladder,

A screwdriver, a hammer, I began to grow sadder.

I hate hanging curtains, pictures, and blinds,

And when it comes to decor, we have all kinds.

I had to admit that when I had it all hung (hanged?),

It looked very nice, I was glad it was brung (branged?).

Our home, like this poem, is nearly complete,

I hope you’ll agree, it’s been quite a feat.

And congrats to Perrianne, Jackie, and Lorrie,

They were the winners of last month’s free story.

If you’d like to win a free paperback book,

Click on this link. See? That’s all that it took.

You can have whichever novel you choose,

Something something something booze.

If you enjoyed my poem, you might like my books,

They’re nothing alike but click here to take looks.

This one’s on sale for ninety-nine cents,

It's got great reviews, ladies and gents.

Oh, one last thing before I let you go,

There’s something else you need to know.

I’ve got to make another Walmart run.

We’re not really finished. Not really quite done.

My wife heard me exclaim, as I drove to the store,

"I never did find them. I’ve got no more."

Horror on her face. “Are you saying . . . oh no!”

“’Tis true, my dear. I’ve gone commando.”