JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

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.