The Worry Machine
The clothes we wear get dirty
Or, once worn, are not so fresh,
So they get cleaned (or should) before
They’re back against our flesh.
Now wouldn’t it be wonderful
If, like our dirty wash,
Our problems could be laundered
And would disappear? Oh gosh!
We’d load our worries and our stress,
Each sorrow, dread and fear
Into some contraption, spinning ‘til
They all would disappear.
Each day would start out crisp and clean
And we could reassert
Our better selves, at least until,
The build-up of new dirt.
Copyright © Ilene Bauer | Year Posted 2021
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