I don't want to want

I don't want to want
anything.
Want that content wash of
spring when the green is
otherworldly,
the wild smiles of
glacier lilies
breaking forth from
the hard and heavy
ground.

I don't want to want
anything.
Want to hold the
soft skin of my children
carry their words
their songs
race with them
through open space.

I don't want to want
anything.
One egg,
one piece of toast,
cup of chai
apples in the basket
reasonable and smart.

But sometimes
I drive myself crazy
because I really,
really want things.
I want enough space
for a bedside table
would prefer if my
glasses didn't have to sit
on the floor all night
long, when the kids
wake at four I
worry first about
stepping on my glasses
which seems like such
a ridiculous worry
at a time like that.
I'm tired of the bathroom
shimmy, the way we
can't all fit in any space
all together,
the way their toys
spill forth from every
corner, every
imaginable space
inhabited by some
thing that
someone cares about.
I'm tired of the cars
that race by my window
the revving of motorcycles
a front yard littered
with beer cans and
the resin of last nights party
because this is a college town
and we have been in this
little house
ten years already
ten years is a long time
ten years means,
perhaps,
we've grown out of something.

Which is tricky,
because I don't want to want
anything.

The want can make you crazy.