The hamper has a shoulder now a sleeve

The hamper has a shoulder now, a sleeve

of a work shirt dangling like a broken limb.

It’s a mountain of the things I didn't leave,

of every day that started out too dim.

I needed socks, but I just stood and stared

at the sheer mass of cotton and of sweat.

I don't think I can face the way I've fared,

or wash away the things I haven't finished yet.

I’d rather buy a new pack at the store

than dig through what I’ve worn and cast aside.

It’s sitting like a person on the floor,

holding all the versions of me that have died.