The overflow’s weight

Clothes spill like tired bodies

piled high beyond the hamper’s edge.

Shirts twisted in faded knots,

socks hiding in the fabric heap.

I step around the mound in the dim light,

treading soft on the spill of folds,

the weight of worn-out fabric pressing

like the slow weight of things undone.

The pile grows unchecked,

quiet evidence of days folded in,

wrinkles sharp as regrets,

wrapping the room in quiet clutter,

a soft, restless overflow.