January twenty-third time

Sometimes, I avoid washing laundry for impressive
spans of time. If I wait long enough, tiny woodland
creatures nest in the arms of my sweaters.
Their eyes are large and their noses soft and wet
like riverbanks. They nuzzle me when I stumble
across them, looking for that second sock
or black leg warmers instead of brown,
and I am reminded of the unanticipated boons
that procrastination can provide.