Monday is washday
Sunday night sees piles of clothes
segregated in lights and darks
reds and prints, huddled together
dreading the morning.
Machines go through their cycles
pour, churn, whirl, whir.
Monday air is sweet with dryer sheets
damp with clothes-horse hangouts.
A half hour in front of the TV
pairing, folding, and—Voila!
our closets and drawers
are fat and happy again.
The pant hangers
The ones that remain
too anemic to grasp heavy jeans
which will soon be replaced
in any case
by spring capris
and summer shorts…
What a strange power there is in clothing.
© 2016 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)
This poem was inspired by yesterday’s prompt at NaPoWriMo and strives for the effect of “An abstract, philosophical kind of statement closing out a poem that is otherwise intensely focused on physical, sensory details.” I’m not sure I achieved it, but I tried. The ending statement of the poem is attributed to Isaac Bashevis Singer.