Is all that clean laundry yours, he asks with just enough gentleness that
I don’t get immediately angry.
Yes. Sigh.
I think your pile of clothes is gaining sentience.
And I giggle at the thought of it coming to life.
I say, well, it gets a little lonely around here during the day.
Which is a complete lie because
there are always children.
And one of them staggers around
with his torso through my tank top sleeve
Sometimes he pulls it over his head and
like a cat stuck in a bag
keeps wandering, blind.
If this pile of clothes came to life, it could pick up all the dust
just by gliding around.
I think it would have a mouth, a half moon puppet mouth
but not eyes.
I don’t think I would be afraid of it
unless it snuck up behind me, silent.
What I am a little bit afraid of is that
my children will realize our house is dirty
because I couldn’t handle life
and they will never put their laundry away
ever
because mine is in a heap
mocking me with its half moon puppet mouth
But what I am most
afraid of is:
that I will spend my time folding laundry
instead of
writing