LAUNDRY

 I am enraged

That I am not engaged

In writing a magnificent poetic work

Of incredible lyricism and

Transcendental significance.

Instead I am hanging up wet washing

Underwear of the sort

That nobody knows I wear.

But these damp textile tubes

Have got to go somewhere to dry

In what passes for air here

So I sigh, ‘Why do I

Have to deal with their placement?

It’s a disgracement and a wastement

Of my time

Which every day seeps away

Like waste water from a washing machine.

And I thank Ford for that

Bit of kit.

Because back in history

Poets could be

Cranking clothes

Through mangles

And inevitably getting entangled.

Or, if we go back

Seriously older

Thumping garments

On streamside boulders

Instead of scrawling scrawls

On firelit cave walls.