Now Serving My Room is Close to Me

I come apart under the scrutinies of
room-cleaning regulations,
confused about whether
I'm guilty or confused,
one or both.
Close enough, a hand is smooth as fog.
A close hand is welcomed for
warmth and sanity, but rightly
feared, fog being used
not just by givers.
I was wrong because it didn't sort out
that trash bags on bamboo
poles or laundry by the
fridge were alright, if
I see it or not, and a
sweet-tooth sorrow
greedily sated
past health
is that I
might.