Squeezed in Plastic Bags Rice krispies spill sloppy from my bowl and the
cats follow me from room to room, lapping them up.
“It’s kind of a weird sadistic suburban thing that we do.”
Laundry dries musty in the washer while my roommate
and I argue limply over whose turn it is to hang
the clothesline. In August only undershirts are worn;
everything lightens a few shades without getting whiter.
Come August, everything is stained.
Humidity beads along shag carpet plasticine fibers, the
iron is hid beneath snowsuits, I have forgotten
how the oven works. “Those repeated attempts suggested
that it was suicidal.” Fans blow dust from room to room.
--I do not believe in emergency tampons--.
Dream of sweaters, of thermal underwear squeezed in
plastic bags.  ¶ 7:04 PM