Oh, let there be nothing on Earth but laundry
—Richard Wilbur
Outside, a tense wire wiggles
in the wind, tightrope of decades
connecting our lives and loves.
Each piece of each outfit dancing,
weighing down the checkered line,
interspersed with persistent pulleys,
reminders of the way we were.
Cloth flags signaling what will come.
Colors shift along a washed horizon,
then fold to the ground as if weeping;
in our morning light, we pass through
French double doors to test their dryness.
Who will hear them flapping when we’re gone?
Pack them away when the old house closes?
