The Laundry, Love – Joan Prusky Glass

In love:
             Still warm,
             stacked neatly
             at the edge of our bed.
             My shirt sleeves,
             tucked under, linger
             against your winter hat.
             Our bedside lamps glow.

Out of love:
             You quickly untangle
             your twisted pant legs
             from my sweaters
             (not wanting to remember
             how I look in the pink one),
             then abandon it all
             in a heap in the hall
             outside our bedroom,
             closing the door
             behind you.