My chlorine days lay heavy on my skin
As I lay down in sheets that might have been
Engulfed in variations of your sweat
Instead of washed and dried in “just forget.”
Tonight they’ll twist in fits of restless thought
Of creases on the day that they were bought,
In plastic wrap, smooth, flat upon a shelf,
A perfect presentation of their self.
But now we lay on this imperfect bed
Entwined like roots entangled with the dead
As cleanliness begins to make me itch
And wish for all the comforts of the rich
Who sleep like kings and queens in satin sheets
While wide awake the dream I dreamed retreats.