Quarter-Dried Denim

Eighteen, I leave home for dorm dryers

nestled behind Tree Hall in a decrepit

laundry den. At its suite mate’s feet,

puddles hoisting student quarters

like lily pads. No second cycle.

Instead, I suffocate my wardrobe

with a trash bag, make it my hamper’s

neighbor for the week. I pluck

jeans as needed—let them air dry

walking class to class. The stench

of mildew turns blinding cloud.

My childhood takes opportunity

to return someplace imaginary.

I won’t notice its absence for years.