The bed’s been missing sheets for two days
she washed them, all right,
that at least got done
but then forgot to finish the job.
Clothes litter the wooden floor,
discarded from her trudges up the stairs
and neglected after she doesn’t rise
from her prone position on the unmade bed.
Weeks like these mean she falls
asleep with the light on,
falling into unconscious before
she can put on pajamas or darken the room.
the radio tries to wake her in the morning
(along with five alarms)
but it usually brings bad news, and the dreary words
only make her burrow into the naked mattress again.
At the end of the week she’ll manage
to make her bed, pick up her clothing,
light a candle, and turn the light off
before falling asleep—
just avoiding the drop off of a cliff.
This week won’t lead her down the dreaded rabbit hole
but she wonders when, someday, another will.