A messy room becomes a picture of a messy mind in this poem. The speaker describes papers like scattered maps, shoes and hats on the floor, and a guitar waiting to be played. Torn between a "motherly" and a "fatherly" voice telling him to clean first, he admits he has no real idea how to handle the situation, and he says chaos theory seems to rule even this tiny, windowless room.
Yet he isn't alarmed. Writing is his remedy: the pen charts "new courses," unblocks a stream, and turns polluted ponds into fresh water. Once his thoughts clear, he can face the "dragons" that were weighing on him, then dance with his guitar as the clutter gets tucked away. The mood shifts from restless and overwhelmed to hopeful and playful. The ending is calm and accepting, though. The mess will return like falling leaves, the way seasons turn, and the speaker seems to take that cycle in stride.