I can tell I'm depressed
When I don't take the laundry
Out of the washer,
Where it has been cleansed of its sins
Of passion, or rage, of greasy fast food.
My filthy hands would ruin them.


So I wait for my roommate
To baptize his own spotless hands
With MY damp boxers.
The habitual thuds of my soggy clothes
Against the back of the dryer
Are a nice distraction.

My favorite flannel dances
With her tiny lost sock.
But 45 minutes isn't enough.
I don't want to end their fun,
So I leave them there
And hope that they'll fuse forever.

He tosses the clothes onto my floor,
Scattering them, wrinkling them, freeing them.
Corduroys atop henleys under crew socks and tees.
Folding them would be a waste
Of a catastrophic masterpiece.