The Weight of Tuesday

The wicker is screaming, the lid is ajar,

and the pile has climbed up remarkably far.

A sleeve of a sweatshirt hangs out like a tongue,

from a weekend of laundry that hasn't been swung.

It’s the cotton remains of the week I just had,

the socks that are lonely, the shirts that are sad.

I look at the mountain and feel a strange dread

of the work it will take to get back to my bed.

We carry our history in fabric and thread,

in the smells of the coffee and tears that we shed.

Sometimes the burden of simply existing

is a basket of chores that won't stop resisting.