Laundry Heap

Wicker basket, split and cheap,

a mountain of regret.

Another week, the dirt will keep,

I haven't tackled yet.

Socks curled stiff, like tired hands,

a t-shirt, gray with doubt.

The uniform, it still demands

to be let out. Or in. Or bought.

Another pair.

Kicked my jeans, a hopeful shot,

they slid right off, right there.

A soft thud on the linoleum floor.

Just another layer. More.