Mighty wind
of a Maytag
washer in my basement
bunker, masticating
unmentionables;

same weary slosh,
thump, and grind
as the last
time, says:

"ALL BEEN DONE...
ALL BEEN... DONE —
COME LIKE CLOROX
... AND A BOX
OF SUN!"

Oh, I'm no jaded
fuddy with sudsy
duds,
or contrarian
in a belated
February, errands
to shun, yet God
knows

the wash
ain't no
fun, only reminds
me of the stew we're all dipped
into, — Spin Cycles, Chinese
water treatment, shell shocked
existential donkeys
fox trotting
blinfolded,
sopping tails
desperate to pin
on what?

Always a special relief
to me, when that washer
is done, the last shudder
banging home with overtones
as surcease

of madness; I swear,
I savor the silence
in my basement bunker
for about sixteen
seconds... then, I'm all
about business: effacement
of the chute,
peeling

a dripping load
clear, I can't empty it
fast enough, or so it would
seem, all those cute wisps
of steam rising
off loin cloth lump,
hankie clump, the various
Tightie White array:

"MF-er still got something
to SAY?" I ask the half cocked
Maytag mouth, while punching
in the dials
of its good
twin,
a higher
spin, yea I can
listen to a dryer

all day.

---

Dennis Mahagin is a writer from Seattle who eschews pretension, bubble wrap and laundry mats.