Gross Occupancy

The dryer sheet is stuck to my shin

like a bandage that didn't quite take.

I’m standing here, chest full of warm cotton,

staring at the blue pool of Tide on the floor.

The light hits the spill and turns it chemical,

a bright, oily slick on the gray linoleum.

I can't remember if I drove here

or if I just woke up mid-fold

in a town that smells like artificial lavender.

I am a person who buys bread and pays rent.

I have a heart that beats in this specific light.

What a strange, heavy thing to carry

across a parking lot at noon

without a single clue of what to do next.