Wash Day by Katrina Wharton

Hanging like tired old people
my laundryís on the line.
Too tired, too late to run away.

Caught by shoulder, canít 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, Iím 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 theyíll be dry, a little stiff
but smelling sweet.Then itíll be my time
drying                   line.
on    the

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