She talks often of dusty surfaces
and laundry, more
I think, these last months, of leaving
the housework and me;
she tells in barbed epithets of
past indiscretions and wrongdoings
attributed to the mechanisms of
my capricious personality.
Each wicker basket filled with garments
of misbehaviour, and
comments and actions performed,
things I didn’t but should have done;
collectively, shirts of neglect, vests
of distaste, pants of misdeeds
thrown into automatic spins,
until their natures and colours run.
There is no denying, for each article is
labelled with my name, there
for all the world to see, rags and
dirty dealings in her beautiful laundrette;
niggling collars of failings, sleeves
of emotional blackmail, socks of sarcasm,
dirty washing strung up and aired
dripping acidic, fresh and wet.
So, I carry my basket with me, wherever
I go, and some things I put
away, and others I toss in the trash and
certain things I keep and wear;
for their feel to me is a reminder,
their scent a primal keepsake, of each
goading snipe as it chisels and chips
predictors of how soon before I cease to care…