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.