A Crumpled 20
June 17 2024
I extract the soiled clothes
from the basket
one-by-one;
pulling the sleeves right side out,
unravelling the cuffs
they’ll soon grow out of,
and checking pants pockets
before they’re put in the wash,
well-taught, as I’ve been
by bad experience.
Used tissues
and little balls of lint.
Hidden treasures
and old shopping lists.
A random collection
of ticket stubs
store receipts
bent paperclips.
It feels archeological.
Excavating layers,
accumulating evidence,
reconstructing past lives.
So there are no secrets
on wash day.
But with transparency
comes equality;
the democracy of laundry
in the machine,
where stripes and solids mix,
parents and kids
are treated no differently,
and colours and whites
get tossed in
indiscriminately.
As well as an understanding head of state
who thanklessly serves
but also forgives.
Who gets to look back
at the recent past
and smile indulgently.
Gets to keep the crumpled 20
and whatever loose change,
the small secrets
strategically filed away.
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