(no subject)
The Laundromat
They come on weekend mornings,
To make confessions to round-bellied priests.
Releasing their sins into lavender scented bleach.
When a sock slips away,
They kneel.
Fearful that the sock will grow
Damp and moldy,
In a dark, buried place.
They do not have eyes or ears.
Only nervous fingers to trace undergarments,
Noses, to smell the new fabric softener,
Fresh scent of their lives.
In silence they pray.
Folding the corners dexterously,
Bringing together all the loose ends
And ironing out the details.
They come on weekend mornings,
To make confessions to round-bellied priests.
Releasing their sins into lavender scented bleach.
When a sock slips away,
They kneel.
Fearful that the sock will grow
Damp and moldy,
In a dark, buried place.
They do not have eyes or ears.
Only nervous fingers to trace undergarments,
Noses, to smell the new fabric softener,
Fresh scent of their lives.
In silence they pray.
Folding the corners dexterously,
Bringing together all the loose ends
And ironing out the details.