freshly tumbled, warm, crinkled
lay them out, slip them in
a flat rush of fabric softener between us
an unreturned hug, a flash in the eye,
white plastic hangers in hand,
open closet doors and fan on
lights waiting to be snapped off
no eye contact for the former doe
in the headlights who
collided and limped away.
Today gets
swept under the rug
dampened by tears shed through dehydrated ducts
Tomorrow gets
swept under the rug
wrinkled like crows feet under the friction
of heels and flats and muddy hiking boots
The day after gets
dusty, gritty, and the
tin
crystal
china
silver
pearl
ruby
gold
gets dusty, gritty, with the patina of
too much to be swept
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