As often as required, no more, you bathe
and dress and walk upright like people
knee-deep in mud.
Your home’s a shrine to bad decisions:
Mail-piles tombstone over deadlines past,
Whole years of chores put off
spawned tumbleweeds behind the couch
and you across it, greasy supplicant of melancholy,
ignoring calls and hiding from the landlord,
wasting days in helpless sleep.