Laundry Time

It's Laundry Time!

And I'm thinking one solid load will do it.

Because one load will have to do it, because one dollar (and 25 cents) is all I have.

It's Laundry Time! And a rare occasion, because I am incapable of washing my clothes

when they're not melting disgusting.

I need mustard stains, and kidney beans for Laundry Time;

I want my clothes edible and delicious when I wash them

Because it's Laundry Time!

And when it's Laundry time the stupid machine doesn't

accept my nickles, dimes and pennies, or my excuses, or my folding songs.

And because it's laundry time my mother's eyes twinkle

with a “look at my little man” sort of pride

but my pants don't smell as good as they used to.

And they don't dry all the way through like they should.

So no, that's not my skirt,

this isn't math class,

it's Laundry Time!

And this things intake valve just caught on fire!

And nobody else is around to put it out, so during

Laundry Time

I have to put out an intake valve fire

or die?

Nobody wants to die during laundry time.

Just think of that obituary.

So I hum a tune, the Andy Griffith theme song,

and the lumpy women next to me grabs my

ass in shivering delight, really cupping it,

and I pretend I don't like it.

Laundry time makes me angry and spiteful towards wonderful displays of affection.

And I think it's because when it's Laundry time

all my other chores become these little badgers on my back,

that just rip out the cotton fibers of my freshly picked flannel,

and any pride my mom had becomes lost with my favorite pair of linen slacks.

It's Laundry Time but I couldn't feel

more naked, and as my car tire flattens under

my load of flower scented undies

that women, that woman with rope fingers

and love handles approaches and

asks me if I need a ride home.

All I can do is nod and say, “It's Laundry Time!”