There is a sweater - Pacific blue, frayed beyond repair - I cannot seem to part with.
A long coat, once the green of late-winter pine, has gone grey from disuse,
though the closet still bears its bulky real estate. The world, too, feels loosened
of its seams, on the verge of - or already - unraveling, a tumble of unsortable laundry.
And yet we're standing by the pile, pointing fingers at the mess,
refusing to let go of our favorites no matter how long they've withstood our neglect.
Spring cleaning is months away, but it is already too late, and I'm wondering
who will make the first move, unfold from their stiffness at the podium, and bend
to the task. Who will give up the space on their shelves with the floor so bursting
with the wounded.