Stuff

How much stuff there seems to be for even just we two.
Or should I say, us two?
Which will best do?
Either way, "stuff" it it; stuff stuffed in boxes,
And in corners, laid on beds, hung from doors.
What fors?
So many of this, so much of that,
Rooms bulge with accumulated fat
Of clothing and photos and books and folders,
Sorting all causes growing olders.
Ok, that rhyme was a stretch for sure,
But how much more can one person endure
Of all this stuffing to make more space
And my mind just has to race,
Then to a screeching halt panting arrive;
Not much longer and I shall revive.
Once that pipe is fixed
No more need all this be mixed
But the usual items to their homes return
And I shall breathe and not [I hope] burn.

Author's note: This came as a consequence of another problem with the plumbing where we now live. It proved to be one of a series, a series yet to end.