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.