Clothes drop on the floor
A quick sigh
Should have put it in the Cart
Could have fallen anyways
And on the wheels
The floor is better
But the bottom of the shoes touch
Pee from the bathrooms
Cigarette buds from the floor
"Hose down the bottom part of the shoes" anti-bacterial wipes on the floor
I'm walking on invisible paper
In a little pile by the bathroom,
a collection of my clothing engraved.
Though the cloth is cyclically exchanged,
the pile serves as vowed remain.
I say I keep them there in case,
but we both know it's promised trace
that any time I leave this place
there is a never-ending return.
We do not live together,
but I stay there every night.
I am always here, so I keep a small collection of clothing that I leave by the bathroom door. A wall area in which I have claimed for my belongings. I keep them there in case I need to change, yes, but it is also symbolic of my return any time I leave. It is assurance that no matter what happens, I HAVE to get my things back. Almost like a promised excuse.
The clothing is "engraved" because I always leave them there, and even if I have to wash them, I leave a variety of articles "cyclically exchanged" so that the wall is never vacant.
All of the end words, except the first and the last line, are mainly like-rhyme. I used this to articulate the fluidity yet imperfectness of our love. I used words such as, "engraved, vowed, promised" to describe the pile of clothing because they are also used to describe marriage, wedding rings, etc. I am nineteen and marriage is not in my current desires, but this little pile of clothing is what I use to promise the continuation of my love. This poem is short and a pile of clothes is simple to illustrate how easy and simple our love is. We are not hung up on technicalities or societal structure but rather a realistic, honest bond.
A love as honest as laundry.
Lines 5-7 rhyme perfectly to illustrate the rhythm that two souls create as time goes on.
in my mother's basement
once upon a time she tied up a clothes line
though most of the time
was used to hang up
precariously hooked to a rope becoming less taut
as the years go on
the ironic garage sale hand-me-downs of broken homes
as bodies for clothes become subtracted they make room for memories
we become heavier by
as the hangers continue to multiply unused
clothes hangers are sacred
they are ghost as zygotes
I would wear my woven leather belt for an inverted neck tie
on those days
tie the end to the wooden cross supports
in the basement ceiling
then tip-toeing up
on a beat-up stool
a game of chicken with nobody
a side of extra mc chicken sauce for the soul
I wonder now
if anyone would've wondered
if I had died never having leaned how to properly wear a belt
kids today wear their pants too low
and parents back then were way too given to involuntary penance
to up the ante
I would write a list on the wooden beams in the ceiling
each time I got up there
for all the reasons I got up there
in attempt to embellish the exit sign
singing ugly duckling swan song echo
and sedated by
training wheels for Icarus syndrome
it wasn't that my youth was in disillusion
I just never really learned how to measure distance
a pair of breaking parents
an unwanted pregnancy
what's with in arms' reach
a game of catch
a game of release
a flight of stairs in one step
it's not your fault kid
but you're gonna have to get hurt anyway
funny how when you are teetering on stoic infinity
a noose becomes a life-support system
dance like no one is watching
I don't play those games anymore
my bones have gotten too heavy to bet against
memories I still wish to change
knees too weighted to two-step the precipice
and since learning how to use my legs again
I now prefer walking this earth
wearing my belt around my equator
over drawstrings around my neck
the basement has since been renovated
no more wooden crosses in the ceiling
I don't play childish games anymore
I just do my laundry there
The kind of love that’s aching...
I watch days fold
Into another like laundry.
Time never ends just like it,
So I measure your absence
in pant seams I press together.
It’s simple to do,
Making straight, clear-cut lines
Two halves just have to join together.
I still love you.
You do, too.
Our union should be
as simple as this routine.
How long though, until I see you?
And If then, If we go back?
Will you fold again?
If you do, I swear
to be fair to my heart
I'll lay this love out to dry.
I can't take you back.
(c) 2014 Marlena
Id kill to go back home
where my bedroom still looks the same
where my mom takes my dirty laundry away to be cleaned
but my dirty laundry piles up now
and I wanna go home
where my laundry doesnt sit in the corner for me to look at
It's a laundry list of problems.
Nothing that someone hasn't had before.
Except now they are mine.
Why is this laundry mine by the way?
I didn't ask for it.
I'd rather have a nice vacation.
Do you think I can take them to the cleaners?
Maybe speedy express would work.
Can't hurt to try.
The pile just grows bigger and bigger.
What if I washed some things together?
Will one of them bleed?
Maybe it can hurt if I try.
How will I know?
Anyone out there?
folding laundry with you
singing don't let me down
and you know
i never will,
but those words look lovely
on your lips.
An example of the simple parts of love, I suppose.