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Michelle Claus

O Laundry!

O Laundry! You exquisite chore.
You daily deed that I adore.

Whatever be my mood or state,
you faithfully accumulate.

You’ve been there from the start, my friend,
I swear this bond will never end.

Indeed, your steadfast amity
feels like a sempiternity.

I marvel at your ample girth,
I breathe your aromatic worth.

What is that ripe perfume you wear?
Au naturel, organic, rare!

Eau de Corps, so odorous!
To my olfactories, a fuss.

To bathe you daily I commit.
A fresher scent, if you permit,

I offer through detergent sweet.
I only want what’s good and meet.

You are, in truth, my constant mate
I do not wish to agitate.

To ply the rhythm you’ve ensured
A giant drum I have procured.

Swim, my precious, swim some more!
Swim the sudsy sea galore!

And when your pleasure terminates
the heated tumbling awaits.

Around, around, you ever spin,
Your game I ever fail to win.

I resurrect you, heavy load,
I press the origami fold.

I sort and stack you, mon ami,
I put away and bid bonne nuit.

And in the morning, in a heap,
you reappear, my soul to keep.

O Peerless Mountain, here is writ
that I, your Sisyphus, submit.

Submitted: Wednesday, April 02, 2014
Edited: Thursday, April 03, 2014

Topic of this poem: futile

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