Yesterday's Pockets

I set my alarm for seven
but wake up at eight,
running late by the time
I crawl out from the covers and,
because I forgot to pay the gas,
freezing my balls off
as I scratch them

and step haphazardly between mounds
of clothes, stopping to feel these socks
and that shirt
and pulling on the first pair of pants—
do you really need to wash them?
they only get more comfortable—

and head to the bathroom,
curl the tube from the bottom
and scrape the last bits of paste
across my teeth
and skip the shower
because there's no time
and I forgot to buy soap
and my pants are on already, anyway,

so it's out to the car
and put the –

so it's back inside
to look on shelves
and through drawers of envelopes
and pens and bills
and look through piles and pockets
and finally,

finally,

it's back outside
and it's in the car
and it's starting the drive
and it's listening
to the crackling new-gen voice

preaching the same ol' same ol'
of finding Love or God or Happiness
like they're as easy to find—
and keep—
as keys in yesterday's pockets.