Dry Weight

The denim is suctioned to my ribs,

a cold, blue weight that smells of asphalt.

I forgot the umbrella on the hook

next to the coffee machine at work.

I have to peel the sleeves off inside out.

The shirt falls into the bottom of the tub

with a wet, heavy slap

that sounds like a body hitting the floor.

I leave it there, a dark heap of water,

too tired to wring the day out of it.