Asymetrically unbalanced, a voice test.
The folding of me, the fitted sheet.
Sinister. Purposefully wrinkled.
Stretched. Elastic ran through.
“Same shit, different day.
But whatever,” says sheet.
[FYI, the sheet, that’s me.]
“The sheet don’t mind.”
The hot, dryer memories.
jostled in the wash.
Jumping in, still damp.
With socks, underwear.
Uncertainty all around,
after hamper confinement.
He doesn’t understand me.
Can’t quite fold me correctly.
Can’t even find my corners. Sigh.
Tumbling. I miss the hot dryer.
The sheet still don’t mind. Not a bit.
Little light in the life of a sheet.
The best to hope for is being handled.
Grabbed, turned right-side-out, creased.
Me, that fitted sheet, flattened and pressed.
I’m under here, dreaming of drying on a beach.