Old loops

The guest-room bed is stripped and bare.

The silence hangs inside the air.

I haul the orange cord from out the drawer,

and drop its weight upon the floor.

It keeps the shape of where it’s been,

a kinky, stubborn, plastic sin.

It won't lie flat or stretch out straight,

distorted by its own dead weight.

My palms are slick with oily grime,

the chemical smell of wasted time.