Wash Day by Katrina Wharton
Hanging like tired old people
my laundry’s on the line.
Too tired, too late to run away.
Caught by shoulder, can’t shake
free. No voice in them to whine,
so they resign to stay.
Wind rips and snaps through cotton
sheets creating flowing curtains
animated by air.
The sleeve of my crisp collared
work shirt waves, I’m certain,
but my blue jeans are joggin nowhere.
My skimpy satin underthings
shimmy and bounce, they tease
my flannel nightie, who flops up and back gracelessly.
By sunset they’ll be dry, a little stiff
but smelling sweet.Then it’ll be my time
alone
drying line.
on the