This is home

Room full of boxes
still unpacked these ten years
don’t touch my stuff
cat hair infests the air
its filaments float
electrified in the sunrays
will we have them shaved?
clean the furnace filter
shall we save the small carpets that it yields?
nice leather sofa
all shabbiness now
will we outlaw the claws?
violations of perceived personal space
sometimes we snarl, say sorry (sometime)
fumes of flatulence
a Biblical stench in the nostrils
we don’t say sorry
it’s supposed to be funny
separate bedrooms now
she snores so sonorously
I must wear the air mask
Darth Vader, get away she says
she works, I write and play
we go to stores to buy things we do not need
just to have a change
and walk together
we know, I think, everything that can be known
about another person
and we can glean the rest in secret sighs.
This, says an old song,
is the stuff that dreams are made of.