I don’t wear dirty clothes in the evening. But when I change into my pajamas, let those clothes sit in a pile overnight, and find them in the morning. They’ve become dirty clothes. This is a poem about that oddness.
I reach down and bring up my clothes
So that they almost touch my nose,
Take a sniff to get a whiff of yesterday
When these clothes were okay.
But disease and infestation must have swarmed
Around my clothes last night and transformed
Them as they lay on the floor
Not to be worn anymore.
Before I went to bed, they were clean
But some mystically unseen
Power has taken a hold
Of those clothes and made them old.
I need new clothes this morning
Because without warning
The clothes that were perfectly fine
Are now those dirty clothes of mine.