‘Laundry, laundry, still wars and laundry;Misquoted from Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida (Act V, Scene ii)
nothing else holds fashion.’
Those of us with children, or at least those
who’ve ever laundered for them
laundry accumulates exponentially
with the birth of each additional child.
This is not a complaint, nor any lack
but a simple statement of fact.
My family size is limited by the amount of laundry
I can cope with in a day.
It’s all about managing the flow:
feed the maw of the machine,
keep it stoked, appease it with fresh offerings
of sweaty socks and grass-stained jogging bottoms.
Never let up, or take time off to play
In the days before washing machines,
I conclude that either:
a) people stank to high heaven all the time; or
b) they spent their entire lives doing laundry.
The people who did the laundry were mostly women
they washed it in the river or the sea.
The people who did the wars were mostly men.
The women stayed at home
waiting to wash the bloodstains out
some stains won’t wash away.
And it doesn’t look like the human race
is anywhere near done
© Experimentsinfiction 2021, All Rights Reserved
Written for dVerse
Tonight, De is hosting Poetics, and has called for a poem about laundry. I, for one, detest it! Not as much as I detest war, but thankfully, I have more experience of the former than the latter.