The house is silent.
My boys--young and old
are out in the world,
leaving me solitary
in my laundry room chapel.
The sun is there, uninvited
playing with its motes.
I have filled the washer\'s
vast emptiness to the rim
with the secret invisible
socially unacceptable
DIRT
(such an unpoetic word!)
there must be no dirt
in a properly run house.
Dirt is sin
I am the priestess
giving absolution
Sitting on an upturned box
hypnotized, I watch the giant eye
in which every garment
dances in turn.
My domestic mind
is purified as it watches.
Here at last is one task
with a start and an end.
The clothes are clean
all is forgiven
my mind is spotless again
I am ready to...
I am ready to dry.