De tritest thing

The facts, Ma'am. Just the facts.

I'm not a well-organized person when it comes to the residue of my writing.

I've been almost totally electronic for the last five years.

Therefore, the jumbled piles of paper & envelopes & & & that are scattered around my workroom, on top of & under & in, are probably at least five years old, with the possible exception of little hand-written notes on the back of shopping dockets & such.

I've started trying to sort everything out. (Note to Geof Huth: why is there never an archivist around when you need one?) Now I have many smaller piles of unsorted stuff all over the floor, a lot of envelopes & packing slips have gone into the recycling bin, & I've an idea of how I'm going to categorize what I've got left. When I get around to it. Which I'm going to have to do soon. I'm finding it tricky to pick my way across the room.

To amuse myself in the venture, to give myself something to look forward to, I've decided to transcribe—electronically, of course—the shopping docket scraps, & post them as Detritus Poems. Slight, light, but, hey, you never know.....

The first one's below.