Dirty Laundry

She talks often of dusty surfaces and laundry, more I think, these last months, of leaving the housework and me; she tells in barbed epithets of past indiscretions and wrongdoings attributed to the mechanisms of my capricious personality. Each wicker basket filled with garments of misbehaviour, and comments and actions performed, things I didn’t but should have done; collectively, shirts of neglect, vests of distaste, pants of misdeeds thrown into automatic spins, until their natures and colours run. There is no denying, for each article is labelled with my name, there for all the world to see, rags and dirty dealings in her beautiful laundrette; niggling collars of failings, sleeves of emotional blackmail, socks of sarcasm, dirty washing strung up and aired dripping acidic, fresh and wet. So, I carry my basket with me, wherever I go, and some things I put away, and others I toss in the trash and certain things I keep and wear; for their feel to me is a reminder, their scent a primal keepsake, of each goading snipe as it chisels and chips predictors of how soon before I cease to care…