What Accumulates

A sock fell from the hamper,

then another, then the rest—

fabric tumbling like a damper

had burst, and I confessed

to nothing, just stood there,

watching the mess

spill across the floor.

I could have picked them up,

could have opened the door

of the hamper, could have begun to cup

the clothes in my arms, could have

done something. But I didn't.

Instead I watched the fabric pile

like it was happening to someone else,

like I was a stranger, like the while

I've been living here I've been compelled

to leave things until they break,

until they overflow, until I wake

to the fact that I can't even

keep a hamper closed,

can't manage the small heaven

of folded clothes,

can't deal with the simple things

that ordinary people do. The spill brings

no relief, no clarity,

just the weight of knowing

I let it get this far, that the array

of my neglect is showing,

and I still won't pick it up,

still won't fix the cup

that's broken, still won't

admit that I'm the kind of person

who leaves things undone, won't

face what I've become—someone

who watches socks fall

and does nothing at all.