Keeping Track of Clotheslines
April 4 2008


I’m keeping track of clotheslines.

In winter sunshine
freeze-dried jeans, twisting in the breeze,
as stiff as cardboard cut-outs.
And his well-worn long-johns
snuggling-up to her bright red thong,
among other unmentionables.
Next week, they’ll be gone,
and I picture dishes dashed against the wall,
and a little red roadster
screeching up the street at 3 am.
Two doors over
a row of bras, double D
and the lady waving merrily,
clothespins clamped in her lips
in a shameless buck-toothed grin.

Laundry day in a houseful of kids
— tiny T shirts,
and towel after towel.
And cute little socks
all pointing one way,
like teeny tip-toes, sneaking-off to play,
laughing and shushing each other.
While the man of the house is given pride of place,
first on, last off
furthest away;
sturdy work pants and clean plaid tops
puffing-up with air,
as if giddy
from such unaccustomed freedom.

Here, the clothesline whirrrrs out on its well-oiled wheel;
empty, mostly.
Underwear, with holes, I can’t bring myself to part with.
And fuzzy socks.
And the uniform of T shirts and jeans.
Occasionally, sheets
billowing in the breeze like sails on a tall-masted schooner,
cracking when the wind whips-up.
I imagine the whole thing lifting-off
soaring high over suburbia,
like Tibetan prayer flags
or a gaudy snag of kites.
And me, clinging to the end of the clothesline,
hanging-on for life.