She Folds My Clothes

       1

She folds my clothes,
the tailored rags
once piled in the dirt and
smell of days,
      which is to say
      she picks them up
      and separates them, cleans
      them, load by load,

these that I call
my own, not of
my soul, but nearly so:
my second skin,
      my shield from sin,
      my covering
      and saving from
      all elements and eyes,

weekly redeemed
by this routine
of flattening and
giving shape to what
      was without form
      and would remain,
      if not for this,
      a wrinkled pile of rags,

if not for one
who takes the task
of caring for me, more
than I deserve
      who tells me so,
      but knows that talk
      is cheap and love’s a chore.
      She folds my clothes.



  







 
         2

She folds my clothes.
I give her all
my threadbare socks and
dirty underwear,
      which is to say
      I leave them on
      the floor of lower standards,
      and forget

they are my own,
my stains, my sweat
and toil, my respons-
ibility,
      and I should be
      ashamed of der-
      ilictions, but I play
      the fool instead,

weekly relieved
of turning life
around, restoring order
to a world
      that needs reform,
      and even in
      the time it takes to write
      this silly poem,

she is the one
who does it all,
and I’m the one who
doesn’t tell her so;
      my love is cheap,
      and finding words
      is work.  And while I write,
      she folds my clothes.