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.