Hello Poetry Lovers
Now I’ve been thinking a lot about launderettes lately, and how I found them magical as a child.
We always had a treacherous twin tub at home, so I relished trips to these places with my pal and her aunt Renee. Especially if I was sent to the flat upstairs to get change!
However, the truth is they weren’t wonderous at all.
The scales fell away when I grew up and walked in with my own washing, and I finally saw they were just grim and functional places. Harsh lit and lonely. Still, that spark remained….
This piece tries to reflect that. I hope you like it….
Soiled Goods ……..
It’s Wednesday and the twin tub swallows the kitchen.
The walls shake as they devour Dad’s socks.
But I want breakfast! I drag my teddy bear by the ear.
You’ll have to wait!, Mum shouts against the noise,
her face moist and red.
Why can’t we go to the launderette?
Enticing yellow machines caked with discarded powder.
Knocking at the flat upstairs for change.
Dryers instead of washing lines outside – icicles
forming on sleeves.
And that treacherous wooden clothes horse,
blocking the fire.
Goosepimples run up my legs as I watch my nightie
drying – and I still go to bed with a damp crease.
When it’s my turn to be washerwoman, I find
launderettes no longer wonderous, just automated.
No more friendly chats upstairs –nor supervisors
in nylon overalls.
My washing immaculate, not lurking with moisture,
but like a lost sock, a part of me stays behind.
H.Moulson 2020
Dobby loathes the washing machine, by the way. Any poems about laundry or these former glamorous places are welcome. Do send them in…
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s.
We’ll be back shortly for more poetry japes.
Heather Moulson 