Wet clothing pinned and clipped on lines
Towels and pants on one high end,
Sheets and shirts other end of twines,
Hanging down low as centers bend.
But, in the middle, too shy to publicly fly,
Hangs the underwear, bleached and white.
Playing hide and seek from those near-by,
Wanting oh-so-badly to take flight.
Oh, for a strong wind to play,
Coming across and sweeping away
The blues, the whites, and the gray,
Onto tractor windows, passing this day.
Bras, panties with hearts, boxers brave
Landing square on a farmer's face,
No dignity there is left to save,
Underwear at last has found a place.
I have had much experience with laundry on the line, years and years of it.
I wrote this poem with a head full of memories and my mother's commands to hang the underwear in the middle of the second line, out of sight. "We don't want neighbors to see what we wear."
Neighbors? The nearest lived one half a mile away. The lines were behind the house. But I was obedient.
If anyone wants to sing the praises of laundry drying on clothesline, go ahead. I will not be agreeing with you. Too many memories of laundry basket after each other has left me with a desire to never dry clothes out blowing in the wind. Sorry.
