This is not true, practically speaking.
Once a week or so, I must hunt amongst old books
and on top of an oak chair with a broken wicker seat
turned sideways from a desk no longer used except
(to hold dying cacti and succulents reaching for the light)
for pants and shirts worn day after day
covered in clipped white whiskers from
my husband's beard or
splotches of food that fell during breakfast
or lunch or supper, and I feel like a thief
emptying his pockets of that which he now deems
significant: plastic spoons, packets of sugar substitute,
small envelopes with hearing aids, eyeglasses cleaners,
a useless leather wallet and enough tissues
both used and unused to comfort more than
someone would need with a simple cold or sad day.