Mr. Clean Jeans

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.

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About Delton

Dad, husband, drummer, cyclist, writer, poet, and Christ-follower. Right-brained dreamer solving left-brained problems. Trying to relate in new and creative ways. View all posts by Delton

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