Long Johns State of the Union

The clothesline hung, low, and limp. Raucous, red, long johns and worn, white, blue jeans pinned like butterflies in a box; dangled bodiless. The neighbors all envied Mom’s skill. Nobodies tidy whities were brighter. The pulley wheel whined and clanked against back porch clapboards when a stiff wind blew through. And, the state of your laundry was like the state of the union jack; you hung ‘um both high and took ‘um down when the rain came.