The Overflow

I tripped on it this morning,

again.

The dark mound in the hallway,

a soft, shapeless thing

that’s become part of the architecture.

Socks like small, lost flags

draped over the edge,

a faint, stale perfume

of sweat and days gone by.

It leans.

It’s always leaning,

a slow-motion collapse

waiting for the right nudge.

And I just step around it,

or over it,

pretending it’s not

a whole pile of my own life

I can’t seem to sort,

or wash,

or put away.

Just a soft, insistent presence

blocking the path.