Politics and fashion may come and go, but laundry is eternal. I originally wrote this poem in 1996 as a bit of joke-on-me, when I was living in Olympia and working two jobs, one of which was 2-hour commute every day. I had no washing machine. My children and I decided that the $20.00 every two weeks I had budgeted for the laundromat would be better spent on a movie matinee or making a day trip to picnic by the ocean.
Thus, laundry was done in my bathtub and hung on lines to dry. My neighbors thought I was nuts.
Nowadays I have that miracle of modern technology, the washing machine, and still, I resent being taken from my book just to sort, wash, fold, and put away clothes.
LAUNDRY DAY BLUES
I’d love to claim I’m reading
the best book of the year.
I’d love to swear I’ve read it
but laundry day is here.
My book rests by the sofa
tempting and serene.
But I’ve a pile of laundry
to somehow sort and clean.
The cover art is lovely
with elves and all their kin.
It’s by my favorite author–
would reading be a sin?
Alas for me it would be
for socks don’t wash themselves.
When the task is finished.
I’ll run off with my elves.
Laundry Day Blues © Connie J. Jasperson 2016
Over here we just let the pile grow until someone else washes them.
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Oddly, that’s how my family has done it for years, too. I am that “someone” so alas, I am the Queen of Socks.
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