the shop was closed. the window;

the fifties’ kitchen, red and cream,

seen

as on an antiques show.

book of laundry planted there,

as if they knew, I wanted it.

to read the rules, regulations,

soaps and sudsy flakes.

dream of singeing smells

of ironing,  gas filled machine,

the one plugged into the light,

back then, green road.

boiling the whites furiously,

steamed  the kitchen.

copper stick bleached

beyond.

I could dream an eternity,

to learn the mastery

of laundry.

sbm.