Unwashed

It’s nearly midnight, Wednesday night,

the laundry pile is five feet tall.

The kitchen has a sickly light

that’s throwing shadows on the wall.

I tried to shove a damp towel in,

the plastic basket gave a crack.

It’s split across its white-ribbed skin,

there is no way of going back.

Inside-out jeans and heavy socks

that smell of woodsmoke and the gym.

I’m tired of looking at the clocks.

The cup of tea is at the brim.