AcediaShe’s had her thyroid levels checked. All normal.Still she wakes up tired. The sunlight’s weightOn the quilt’s like that of a heavy, slow, diurnalPredator – a sloth? Do sloths eat meat? –Waiting for her to stir. The house, too,Crouches all around her like a prideOf vacuum cleaners. It's a hostile petting zooWhere she gets to proffer her gritty cup of TideTo the sulking washer. Even her teeth demandAttention. Brush brush brush. Up-down, up-down.Bathe the dreary body. Lift the handSo the comb falls through the hair. But first, this nightgown:Why take it off? Why dress as if the dayExpected anything? Why attempt it? Why – be?