she pulls his sheets out of the dryer
and folds them
smooth and linen-heavy
into neat squares for the basket.
faint pink stains remain from
the wine they spilled on them...
his sheets on her bed,
the bed purchased from a drug rehab center for $2.
a bed probably slept in by straitjacketed coke addicts
or screaming girls with scarred arms
that now holds just the two of them
(still screaming and scarred).
she carried the baskets
through the new screen door
and shakes out the fabrics to put them on the line,
hoping for that "springtime fresh" smell
the commercials always praise.
the linen sheets
cast no shadow.
9 July 2001