Old Clothes

It’s the first time I cleaned my new apartment.

The mess has chipped away at my patience,

Or maybe I just want to find some old things

Like the clothes at the back of the cupboard.

 

Neat pressing and creases tell the tale of another time

But a thin layer of dust has formed upon them, only recently.

Withered flowers have a smell, or so I gather,

Remembering the detergent I had used in college.

Somehow the smell never left the cupboard.

 

The dustpan, whose donning brought back the forgotten, lies forgotten,

As time ticks toward engagements I claim to have

So I can avoid people I don’t want to see.

 

I just noticed that the walls in my house are grey

And the cliche of ascending notes on a harp whisk me to flashbacks.

Recollections swarm of firsts and seconds and lasts

In the shirts and trousers I pinned with those memories,

Glancing at patches as though their stubbornness signifies something.

 

Nigh is the time for judgement – to put them back or give them up.

The latter seems wise; next time I’ll have others to gloss over

That will regale with stories of a lonely silence, cleaner too.

A final wash and I fold them, all ready to donate

When I notice those stains and, smiling slightly, stuff them into a bag.

 

 

 

The art is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s portfolio: CERBEROBOROS

cerberoboros

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