I slice open a grapefruit for breakfast and sigh

as a bright blue butterfly emerges.

Well, I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

Instead I turn to the coffeepot,

enticed by the aromatic brew,

when the percolator decides

to serenade me in Italian.

I suppose it can sing in whatever language it likes

just so long as I am not denied my caffeine.

I leave the aria behind

and start rummaging through my closet.

I am slightly annoyed to discover

that all of my shirts are hanging upside-down

(no small feat, I assure you)

and every pair of high heels

has wandered into the bathtub again.

I don’t have time for this.

My sneaky alarm clock

decided to play hide-and-seek this morning

so I’m already running late.

Once I finally located it

(in a dresser drawer)

it had the audacity to wink at me.

You may wonder why

I don’t simply move,

start over in a new place,

one that obeys reality.

The truth is

I’ve moved over a dozen times

and it makes no difference.

I am still at the mercy

of my deranged, innocent, eccentric home.

Most days it amazes me.

Sometimes, as when I am late,

it infuriates me.

Often times I am simply enthralled.

I wonder invariably why I was chosen

and no answer seems appropriate.

I find myself lost in my questions again,

even as my lamp circles overhead.