Laundry etc.

Breakable things on the floor
and eating quinoa with a plastic spoon.
Laundromats hum with cicadas
and I haven't washed my sheets in two months.
I love the smell of rainy mornings,
but our room smells like stale shredded wheat
and candle wax.
Do audiobooks count as reading?
My scratchy table that could use sanding isn't like
the bumpy gourds shaped like swans occupying it.
Cars driving through slush
sounds like snowboarding in the spring when done the right way.
I can't seem to pull myself from my dirty sheets,
and my pinky-orange underwear has holes in it
just like our window screen,
but not like the hole in our wall, 
which has been plastered.
Listening and reading aren't the same things,
because of perception.
Charger cords tangle at the foot of my bed,
and some songs I can remember the names of
but don't know what they sound like. 
A yellow towel dries on the open door of my wardrobe,
permanently smelling damp,
at least till I wash it again.
Where am I expected to find the time to do laundry
on completely free weekends?
The solitaire game I didn't finish prevents
me from plugging my dead chromebook in.