lived on top of the off-white dryer
in the laundry room
for seven years.
Dad would pile his freshly-dried clothes
Into the off-white laundry basket.
Clothes in the off-white laundry basket were
Dad's clean, dry clothes waiting for me to fold.
I asked Dad again and again,
"Please Dad, leave the clothes in the dryer.
If you put them in the laundry basket
They cool and get wrinkled.
I'll fold the clothes from the dryer. It's okay."
Dad always put the clothes from the dryer
Into the off-white laundry basket.
Dad's shirts were always wrinkled.
Today I moved the off-white laundry basket.
Now, the off-white laundry basket
Lives in the linen closet in the hall.
The laundry room looks bigger.
Well, that's just bizarre. When I read your short entry, a few minutes ago, I nearly commented "Ha! And you claim not to like poetry!" Then I thought about it and decided it was not a poem. Maybe. So I said something else.
ReplyDeleteAnd now you go and write this. : ) Congratulations. You're getting it out of your head. What a fine way. Many more entries and poems to come, I'll bet.
Processing through art = better living.
Bless you and your father.
ReplyDelete