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Confession of a Laundry Basket
For years I’ve served your twice weekly needs
so predictable in their regular recurrence
“I’m doing a wash today”, you would sing out
and then a rain of sheets, towels and undergarments
would fall on me, some still carrying
your intimate fragrances.
You would push the whole groaning lot
into the greedy mouth of the washer, kick me
aside with a derisive thrust of your royal foot
never bothering to clean errant stains and dust
from my body.
How I envied my brothers and sisters who
carried the dried and folded clothes up to
your bathroom and bedroom to be placed
affectionately in drawers and closets and
later allowed to cover your showered limbs.
Then, horror of horrors, you installed a shute
from upstairs down to the basement. Now your
laundry falls down to the washer and drier
almost of its own accord and I am left in a
corner, unemployed and miserable, waiting for
the final insult – to be discarded into the recycling
without a thought for my feelings.
Perhaps in some future incarnation I’ll come back
as a toy rifle to shoot you, or a carpet beater, a bath mat
or even a plastic music stand on which you can place
your songs and play them on your old violin who I
know has been waiting so long for the touch of
his lady’s fingers.
© Johnmichael Simon
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