If considered
by the t-shirts I sleep in -
blue, pink, teal, orange,
gray and lime -
time does not exist.
Six shirts washed
and folded warm,
placed in a drawer.
Ah, I tell myself,
you're good for another
six weeks.
When I reach for a clean one
approximately the next day
and only, say, the lime one is left,
I know my world has collapsed
into t-shirt time,
the black hole of laundry.
Calculate I've run
35-40 therapy groups
the past five weeks,
sat through a gazillion
snoring meetings,
the cats have inhaled
a truckload of Fancy Feast,
and I watched five
(at least) must-see movies
now, its all a blur
the size of a burr.
Soon I'll re-wash the
rainbow of sleepwear,
fold them warm and
put them in the dresser.
Another condensed season
of t-shirt time
begins.