Unwashed

poem

I am alone
 again
 as always
lover’s wounds
oozing words
horribly unrhymed
jumbled heaps and lines
spilling ancient laundry
beneath the broken chair
for the black dog to wear

  Ah yes right there—
wafting

weary I stumble
ascend
 again
  as always
knowing full well
this is unread
even still I hope
crawling toward bed
to dream you still care
crumpled white satin sheets
stained with memory of you
unwashed

Oh yes there—
  that scent.