Lacey Pink Stockings
All the clotheslines look the same to me.
Line after line billowing in the breeze
striped towels, blue jeans, cotton sheets,
strung in color order. Lights and darks
in perfect tight rows....
Weird that my mind is thinking about clothes...
How often do I sit and examine things as those?
A door bell chimes or a telephone tones ,
I'm suddenly thrown out of pensive mode..
… sorting , ‘sorta lost …
Ahh, but these lingering odd thoughts…
variations of memories wrought
by sunlit garments , wind caught…
Seems my line is no different, than others.
So ordinary.
Stark white flags, Egyptian cotton sheets, tease…
There’s more black here, than most, to catch the breeze..
Flapping to a windswept melody,
The pieces unaware of what they sing
Across the fence.
Why so much black ? Do I lack of color sense?
Perhaps a statement of morose pretense?
Never knew I was quite so dark. None the less...
There’s nothing frill , mostly working duds-
cleaned with simple suds .
A dab of spot remover, a little bleach...
All said and done, what does laundry teach ?
Is something bright so far outside my reach?
Some lively color, might be overdue…
Like lacey pink stockings…
©Denise~Marie aka Dreamsbyday
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