day 3; an escape

What better place
is there
than the back of a closet—
huddled behind the old winter coats
     that haven't been worn since 
     we stopped getting four good snows 
     a season;
squashed down in the corner
     with the shoeboxes and tardy socks;
pitch whether eyes open or shut;
left only with the stale
     of disturbed dust 
     from your shimmy into the black
     to rot—
while you wait for the world to change.