A poem.


Line winds round the metal pulley,
silver, it draws out smooth,
under the maple, beyond the garage.
Blue pins hold large expanses,
sheets billow out in the breeze,
pillowcases threaten to wrap round,
socks play footsies, dance with each other.

Drawn in at dusk, whites bleached whiter,
sheets, pillowcases stiff with dryness,
scent of Pacific air blown in from the west,
basket piled higher now than just after the wash,
bedclothes pulled taut, folded over,
stacked in the cupboard, dreaming,
socks mated, huddled in a drawer.

Double lines horizontal and still,
no stretching out, tug for freedom
till next laundry day.

– Marina Blokker

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