It's been called  

a monster. I liken it to a drift  

of snow, but growing.  

Like a dog in the dirt  

like a cat in a box

I dig

for a shirt

and that pair  

of pants that I forgot  

had a hole near  

the crotch.  


Mushrooms of cotton and  

dingy unmentionables.  

Sometimes even clean

and folded. They soon  

enter the fray.  


My thoughts of how you threw me aside

and didn't even let me say sorry.  

How you talk to the children

and look over my head. How I feel  

toppled over, nudged, dug through.  

An unmatched sock, a grease stain

on that heathered shirt.  


AuthorBeth Ables