Each month, write a new collection.
The WashUp before the morning comesand long after the day is doneno rest for the wicked they sayor for the washNo time to stop and eator aches and pains that dare to speakthere's nothing in sightexcept for the washWhat joy is there in this life? No fun, no rest, just hard work and strifethere's no future herethere's just the washPush the iron against the clothpress out the creases that lures the mothswig from the bottle...and finish the wash
I love the capture of dreariness and perseverance
Yeah, I do too. Beautiful poem!
DegasThere is a repetitious hurt thatComes from the soul of the ironFlattening the starch on the collarsas the shirts are all the same to get foldedWith perfectionJust as the girlwith a smile on her lipsFolds up her innocence inthe loneliness of her drearylife waiting for the end ofthe long tired dayWhen the pay is prostitutedfrom the eyes of the wealthycheating the irony of her beautyand virginity from a life called worthy with the respectto feel attractivenessA love for the suitorInstead, the dollar,pays for the sale of her bodyfrom the trenchesof poverty inher reality
the prostituted dreariness of the cheap trenches she is stuck in comes through. nice
I agree. So sad, the hard life really shows through.
Yeah, absolutely. Such a painful painting to look at!
Muscular armsPush steady and firm as steam makesSweat beads rollPay attentionOr the fabric yellowsAnd then there’ll beNo dinnerWill theperfect creasebe noticedNoHe’ll only notice the lady on his arm.Ironing ladyYou’re a lady too,Drink wineWash awayThat thought asSweat beads roll.
Yeah, beautiful poem!
I love how you highlight the lack of appreciation, and how still they press on
washing away the thought we all know is the lady feeling without dinner and the feeling of the work unnoticed just as she, being full of sweat
Women Ironing, Edgar Degas my eyesare a betrayal tears are for the youngdancersshawled in virginlinenbefore the letting,but I will hold my salt— seasoningto the momentwhen all me poured out.
Yes! Fantastic poem man! Your second on this subject
Don't you know how to Iron?My mother taught me the British way, pressingthe crispness of a first appearance on the edges of shirt cuffsMy Canadian granny would liftcountry-air starch straight off the lineA Frenchman demonstratedthe naughtiest of tricks, pressingfashion into parts seen while leavinga haberdashery of rumples underneathMy mother-in-law instructed methe German way, putzing housewifely duty into the fibers of every cotton product in the houseI am studied and fluent in many the languages of ironingMy American self makes laundry permapress easy and wrinkle freeDo you understand now, Husband, the many ways to explore and press a cultureinto the fine white collar of your workshirts?
I love that you make this about the real world too!
to cloud the painhasten the rush to deathescape life
I missed these. This is great man!