The Contaminated Jar

I suppose it matters not

whether there are little bits of paper in the bottom

when nothing that will touch them

shall be eaten.

Or perhaps I have grown lazy,

or I am not awake yet.

Either way,

I am still thinking about them.

Those little tiny bits of paper,

I mean.

They are still in the bottom of the jar.

I left them.

What a terrible scandle!

I have left teensy shreds of paper

in the bottom of the sweet-n-low jar!

Which no one really uses,

but me...

I am far from the kitchen,

now;

I certainly cannot see the pantry door

or the rack that hangs upon it

and gives shelter to the jar.

What nonsense!

Why should I make such a fuss

over not cleaning it?

Because no one knows?

Because no one will care as much as I?

Because it would have been so easy to manage this insane

obsession

over smaller-than-scraps of pale pink paper?

I am loosing my mind.

I can think of nothing else.

I have decided that I will not

go back downstairs and clean it out.

I have plenty of other things to do

and this will surely bother no one but me

so severely.

Still....

I squirm.

I sigh and attempt to be amused

at how foolish I am.

But those little intruders

- that I failed to remove -

are still nagging.

And paper really ought not to nag....