What Pilling Is

Late Tuesday, the laundry room light

doing its flat job overhead.

I pulled the sweater out and held it up—

gray fuzz along the cuff, the thread

gone in patches, the color washed

to something near but not quite right.

The left sleeve stretched a little longer.

It's been through enough nights

to know what I've put it through.

I set it on the donation pile.

Picked it back up. Set it in the clean stack.

This is the fourth time in a while

I've done this. I know what I'm doing.

The machine still clicking as it cooled.

The detergent jug open on the shelf.

I know what I'm being fooled

by—not the sweater, not exactly.

The particular weight of a particular cold.

A specific winter I can't get further from.

The left cuff longer, the color old,

the gray fuzz thick as felt.

I folded it back into the stack.

That's what I did. That's what I dealt.

I turned off the light. I didn't look back.