Neglected

It's cold in my hand.

Still wet, even after the heat.

The fabric is heavy with it,

the cotton sodden and limp.

I must have left it in the pocket of something.

Or it fell from the load somehow.

Or I just didn't check carefully enough

when I was throwing things in,

and the dryer has been running for two days

and I haven't emptied it

because there's always something else,

always another load waiting,

always another thing I'm behind on.

Someone—maybe me, probably me—

forgot to check before I started the cycle.

And now there's this cold sock

at the bottom of the drum,

proof of how little I'm keeping track of.

I hang it on the rack to dry.

It drips on the floor.

I don't wipe it up right away.