I want to be this
wet white dress
hanging alone on the line,
on such a gentle
Sunday morning.

Why do I want to be this dress
so badly?
Every time I glance it’s way
I’m surprised with the jealousy I feel.
I must be jealous of its peace,
I suppose.

It has no need to do anything
all day long,
except hang there
and sweetly dry
in its own time.