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.
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