The Unmade Bed

My mother never understood
Her daughter's unmade bed.
She only saw the spread thrown up
Hiding lumps and furrowed pillows.

My mother never understood
Her daughter governed by the clock.
The morning rush to leave in time
Babies to the sitter; in the office by nine.

With title of wife and stay-at-home Mom
And long disciplined to each day
'Do up the work', her bed was tidy
The chenille straightened; pillows plumped.

Years gone by, no longer ruled by time
Each morning my bed is made
Covers carefully evened on each side
Spread and pillows placed just so.

Now I'm the one to understand a
Mother's chagrin of an unmade bed.
I straighten first one side then the other
No hint of a messy, crooked cover.

(Thoughts as I make the bed each morning.) [ril, July, 2015]