CLXXXIX

I love a mess that’s made by loving friends

who come to call for dinner or for games.

And though they leave me bedlam when it ends,

I do not grieve the mess their presence claims.

I’d gladly wash the dishes twice again,

for I’ve just heard a joke from good old Jack.

And all these crumbs bequeathed by dear old Ben

are but reminders that I want him back.

It’s company what gives a chore its joy—

to clean up just oneself just seems amiss.

I cede my home—my wooden horse—to Troy,

that visitors enjoy the edifice.

So I will clean your dishes that I may

have all the joy within you for a day.