Doing
the Laundry
We scribble
hopeful notes for months
then call long distance twice a year
on cordless phones. I mop the floor,
and tell
my kids to get to bed,
so I can hear her separate
the whites and darks, the stains.
She says
her marriage isn't what it could
have been, the bills are piling up,
her kids still drive her nuts. I hear
her voice
that measures soap,
the water filling up. She grunts and
stuffs the laundry, stains and all.
We could
get drunk, she says, and find
some loud, obnoxious men with hairy
chests and lots of cash and horsepower—
and who would know? She stops
then sighs that turning 30 is a drag,
explaining sex and drugs to kids
that bad
is bad and so is good.
She'd like to smoke a joint again,
or flash new clothes of loudest red and green.
She'd
like to stop
the thump, thump, thumping of the dryer,
twisting, spinning, and unraveling threads,
the fixing
of persistent stains,
the ticking, fading delicates.
--Donna
Biffar
Copyright © 1995 by Free Lunch Arts Alliance
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