Time Moves Along
Gabriel Saunders gave me a call.
I haven't seen her in years.
She said, "Don't forget the reunion this fall.
RSVP when it nears."
I thanked her, and asked about Charlie and Phil.
And what about Janice and Fred?
"Freddie and Philip are lovers," she answered
"Janice and Charlie are dead."
I mildly inquired of her fight for equality
no bra for Gabriel Saunders.
She said it appeared it was all for frivolity,
and one less item she launders.
Everything changes with time we are told.
I surely hope I can remember.
A reunion visit with great friends of old.
Did she say June or December?
My Granddad can’t stay on the straight and narrow
Robs garden centres with his bow and arrow,
Police knew his scheming
So now he is screaming
Speeding downhill in a plastic wheelbarrow
As gramps in his wheelbarrow got lots of LOLs
The river impeded his getaway goals
When used as a boat
It just wouldn’t float
Since when did those wheelbarrows have drainage holes
He dragged out the barrow as fast as he could
Expecting somehow it could do him some good
He thought it made sense
To ask Fred the Fence
“Who launders wheelbarrows in this neighbourhood?”
He sold the wheelbarrow and tried to go straight
Then Grandad found weeds all round his garden gate
“Oh for goodness sake,
I need a new rake.”
Went shopping at ten ’cause the store closed at eight
He snuck through a window by breaking the pane
And made his way through to the garden tools lane
The alarm’s manic blast
Brought police really fast
He grabbed a wheelbarrow and set off again
Not amazed at the transformation from one whom,
not so far away,
only laundered his own clothes,
into one who launders our clothes,
late into a Friday night,
gratefully,
without stretched-bone resentment,
without so much as glancing back,
without any interest in what smaller self had been suffering
on pre-child weekend hunt to gathers.
So profoundly in love,
blind to his own bleached metamorphosis.
No longer comprehending life without
abundant heaps of mess,
soiled cherished artifacts,
much less imagine alternatives to life
that could unfold full
and rich
and fresh
and worthy
without Friday nights with laundry.
A mist led Sunday morning,
Indian Ocean walked beyond the territories,
Dressed in black cloth like a no moon night,
Some Banks sank under the Tsunami waters,
Currency notes floating like paper boats,
Dressed in wetness,
Launders came and ironed all the flood washed notes!
Fresh sweat runs down from eyes to chin
a foamy day launders hand with air’s foam,
washing the slime of April's gray mould
and dressing up a brightened face to roam.
Brooms of nature scrub old clay
mopping fields as skies polish new trees.
Prayers stem from fingers rinsed by dew,
till ocean cleanses itself from soiled grease.
A merry dawn radiates on meadows green
serenading young bouquets kissed by winds.
Oh, soft rhapsody of cherubs bathes the light
chanting praises of joy this fine season brings.
At last, renewed spirit buffs old whiskers
when May's verdant carpet spreads the sun.
Heaven peeps from afar with warm delight
for joyful spring's cleaning rites, finally spun!
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