My clothes know which of them scarcely, if at all, get worn.
The two-sizes too-small pants share sharp glances:
they are planning a game of hide & seek
later on today about the time I catch the negative balance.
I have frames hung on walls and sitting on surfaces
that hope to wake back up in a murk-bottomed forest.
They know nightmares of sawdust and loss.
For them holding memories for their captor
is ironic and torture.
I’ve uncovered the energetic-play
of trimming fat, of letting things go.
The troll anxiously holding his post at the door
like a tightly wound timer, unknowingly ticking.
And I can feel the heat of a million gears turning
for my landlord’s mortgage.