Within the washing machine is a tangle of sleeves, random buttons and various cuffs. There are metal zippers scraping past frayed collars, and socks finally free to take a deep breath.
Sloshing to a melody of suds and
filth, occasionally making deep dives, then coming up across the way, only to
again disappear. It is neither synchronized
nor choreographed. It is more a
free-style jazz with the ting of a triangle at its conclusion, signifying the
dance is over.
A tangle of sleeves
waves good-bye
wash in cold
then tumble dry
Place on hangers
in one straight row
then sneeze into
your clean elbow.
YUCK!
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