the afterwash

Washing hanging on the line
After travel comes washing. As I hung out the second load this morning, I remembered this short poem from a few years ago.

Monday

Wind paunches the belly
of a wifebeater while
blue-black denims drip.
The kitchen drain belches suds
and she ponders ironing
white collars.

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

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