Hiding in the Basement on a Snowy Afternoon

with apologies to Robert Frost

Whose boots these are I think I know.
His socks are in the basement, though,
So I am searching for them here
Beneath the house, where fungi grow.

My toddler son must think it queer
When Mama says, “Be right back dear,”
I hear him struggle to unzip
The moment that I disappear.

He rips off hat and gloves and coat,
Unties the scarf from round his throat,
He throws his sweater on the heap
And dumps out all my diaper tote.

The cellar’s lovely, dark and deep.
But I have snotty drip to sweep,
A naked boy to catch and keep,
And hours to go before I sleep.