My trusty old laptop was on its deathbed a few months ago. When I got the ominous ‘blue screen’ at work one morning, I hurried to back-up all my documents. In the process of going through seven years’ worth of files, I came across this poem. I wrote it in November 2006, when my son was six months old.
Laundry Room, 10 p.m.
A leaf
Spun against the drum,
Wet with Tide, not rain.
Flung from a pant cuff,
An unpacked jacket,
Or a child’s no-slip sock.
This fall, no one spoke of.
Down from the limb, sure,
Maybe even a ride inside.
But sold into centrifuge?
They said tornadoes
Didn’t come this way,
That hurricane season had passed.
Basement washroom
washer w/rubber hook
clinging to laundry sink
Agitates and spins
sudsy diapers, bibs,napkins
daddy’s shirts mom’s aprons
then, in to Brown dryer door/maw
in lieu of clothes line’s chance to
inflate terry jumpsuits, corduroy
jumpers, knit pull-overs
w/snaps at shoulders
into airy spirits
dancing in the backyard breeze
But what’s this I see, clothes fetched
upon dryer’s buzz its finish
Orange graffiti on my laundry batch !!
Whoops ! one orange crayon left
in my artist-child’s pocket – let loose
to scribble its journey everywhere.
Love this poem! Harold switches his purple crayon for an orange one, and climbs into the drier!