sheets

on friday the thirteenth i go to the laundromat to steal matt’s sheets because i can’t sleep without his Downy-smell wafting through my brain. he always leaves the washing machine on while he goes across the street to grab a burrito and chat up the hot latina behind the counter. without turning the machine off, worried he’ll look across and spot me, i yank the sheets out, splattering my jeans with blue gunk fabric softener. they’re cold and wet, these undoubtedly mother-gifted linens, and i curl them tight against my chest and sprint out of there, down down down the street, stopping six blocks from the laundromat to catch my breath. the stinkbugs have gathered to hold mass in the lamppost, the lamppost crackling. i realize i’ve reached the suburbs and am shivering in a well-designed front lawn. i ask myself how i got here, and come up with no answers.