this ghost in the corner of my room does nothing but the laundry
there the same damn load in
the same tin bucket banging
against
the same damn washboard
splintered so horribly
it's hard to imagine
the weakened tattered
rags don't rip its
hands trudging through
shirts through pants
through ties through
bras through briefs
through soaps extracted
out of
a peculiar world rising
from the bucket
scents fluctuating
with the temperature
separating articles of
clothing is thrown
anywhere it'll fit
waking up tomorrow morning
with a sock in my mouth
she says this feels like
sledding without the sled
a depleted membrane of
viscous wives
and
cancerous husbands
making
pinkishly jovial
public appearances shaped
by
back-room curiosities and how-to-books
artfully scattered
across the floor
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