Mildew and Cotton

The mirror is a sheet of gray fog.

I can’t see my own eyes in the glass,

just the shape of a shoulder and the door.

The air smells like wet wool and cheap soap,

a heavy, damp weight that won't let go.

There it is, a heap of blue cotton on the tile,

right where she dropped it before the cab came.

It’s cold now, soaked through with the water

that should have washed the morning away.

I see a single white thread caught in the grout,

a thin, fraying line pulled from the hem.

I don’t reach down to move it this time.

I just step over the mess and walk out,

leaving the dampness to sink into the floor.