Clean the bathroom, scrub the toilet,
wipe down the sink.
(Blue, hardened toothpaste globs on white
— how do you just leave it there?
Where is the cap?)

Dump towels and sheets in the washer.

Wipe crumbs, sweep the floor
— all those icky bits underfoot.
(Baked-on in the microwave again—
doesn’t anyone else see it?)

Step in a melting ice cube.
Mop it up.
My socks—wet.

Unload the dishwasher. Load it again.
(HOW are there so many dishes?
Why can’t we eat out more?
Do other people still date?)

Defrost the chicken,
gather ingredients.
No eggs. Again.
(Why am I the list-keeper?)

Rearrange my closet.
(Nothing fits like it used to… what happened?)

Reach under the bed for my glasses.
Give up.
(My back—what did I do?
Fuck, I’m getting old.)

Back to the dryer. Still damp.
Another cycle.

(If I never did any of this,
would we just slowly suffocate in our own dirt?)