Blue detergent on a velvet dress

that may or may not survive

even the gentle cycle—

I’m tired of babying clothes.

But I have nothing else to worry about.

No New Years pearls, no oven roast, no 

in-laws’ pecan pie and appraisal.

We’re doing it different, this year,

and enjoying the children’s choir 

on the TV over the $4 washers.

It’s better than writing, as romanticized

and procrastinated, in the too-nice journal 

with cream paper and gold edges.

It’s been just over a year now that it’s languished

on the shelf. Taking it down would compromise the room.

But I won’t soon forget that gift, these feelings,

not with your cheer on the door.

Wreathes dyed silver have been trending,

but ours hangs green

like an offering to tempt the gods down,

or just you. The knock and thump

of the laundromat doesn’t help the headache

after Christmas downstairs,

reggaeton and chicken’s feet stew,

jostled between all the thoughtfulness,

such that I felt like the ghost.

Might as well. Something died in me that day,

standing over the hospital bed,

thinking green must be forever.