Washing Day

Like symbols they hang
And flap
What do they say of me? 

The oversized flannelette that I wrap myself in to sleep,
the tangled bra straps that point to my fading sexuality,
the plain cotton that hints at sense and,
maybe,
a little sensibility -
but not sensuality.

 Tea-towels trail traces of sloppy cookery attempts.
A man’s handkerchief:
a fluey reminder of a cold week.

 Would an observer
think me
messy?
awkward?
wayward?
…or merely busy and preoccupied…

 The wind collects a scarf edge,
wraps hand-woven silk around metal wire,
taking away the only whimsical item that may hint at
the young vibrant woman whispering softly to my soul.

I avert my eyes from this madness.
Yearning,
and wistfulness,
take time I cannot spare.

I shake faded jeans and tangled tights
with more vigour than necessary
and throw a faded towel
over the washer,
before retuning to the kitchen to drag dishes
from the bowels of yet another machine.

5 responses to “Washing Day

  1. Great poem, slice of domestic life that others wouldn’t think would make such an interesting piece of writing, and we all understand it those who hang the washing, reminders of a week’s past happenings.

  2. A quality piece.Poetry does not dwell in an ivory tower.This piece is a good example of touching upon daily matters.

    • Thanks for your comment Ali. You’re right. Sometimes poetry can be so introverted, it becomes difficult for a reader to connect. Yet that is what good poetry should do…connect with readers and touch them in some way.
      I have just checked out your blog on Tunisian Literature but I’m saving my visit to your poetry blog until later when I can take the time for a slow leisurely read.

  3. Bra straps – why do they ALWAYS do that?

    And sheets, like surrender flags lowered in salute; you need four hands to fold them, is in an evening ceremony, to find they’re no longer perfect oblongs.

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