Days pass like a
Hastily put bed-sheet
The struggle at the corners
A makeshift solution

Recurring and mundane
Yet extempore every time
No one to reprimand
I bet it bothers you

The nagging instinct
To at least make it look good
It’s you, after all
Who’s gonna sleep on it

Yet you lie down, every night
Until the day, the wrinkles
Become annoying, and
The filth unbearable

Then comes a Sunday
You open the closet
Only to find out, all of them
Are grey.

.    .    .