I had a burst of writing a few weeks ago but then haven't written a poem now for about a month. Well, here's something brand-new.
Bright fabrics of varying degrees
of stiffness are drying on wooden racks
in your spare room, in the sun
between yellow-orange curtains
chosen by your housemate. I remember
you love me when you leave me
a clean towel on the doorknob,
soft cotton from the electric dryer.