My creases gone, my knees sore and stained with grass,
I embrace the kneading purr–a delicate setting at last.
With bleeding reds of ketchup, blood or wine,
the singe of one-hundred-forty degrees purifies
and lifts the spots, now soaked, washed and laundered.
Harsh detergents, new and improved, promise a deeper clean.
My fabric burns, naked and immersed in the ammonia chlorine.
Starched encounters softened by Downy blue
retain the garden stench of potpourri perfume.
Fifty-five minutes of tortured agitation squandered.
My world spins, dizzy. My mouth opens, watering to retch.
Then I rest, thirsty. The filtered rinse preparing to drench.
Gray water discharges to the long-awaited drain,
the evacuating reminder of a darkened disdain.
As my fleshy garment emerges afresh, I ponder–
the wash cycle’s cruel kindness.