Lately, when my anxiety’s peaking,
I’ve taken to keeping notes
in my pocket when I leave the harbour.  

Mostly lists:
.mail card .clean bathroom .take shower
.start laundry .run tonight .Rx  

Just in case
the EMTs or doctors are ever disgusted
at the uncleanliness of my dead or unconscious body,  

a folded slip of paper
that might first flutter to the ground when pulled
from the back of my jeans, but then retrieved, and unfolded,  

to be read with tender curiosity:
I really was eventually going to shower,
and probably even wash my hair—I swear  

(though maybe wearing flip-flops without cleaning the tub)
—in the place where the hanging
pink and white razor never does anything  

but nick bony, unshaven knees.