Standing in the sunlight I dry my wet hair
Still smelling of shampoo and yesterday’s dreams.
Through its damp curtain I watch tiny droplets of water
And you, hanging out clothes in the sun.
With the load of wornout, deflated, dead body-skins
on your shoulders you walk along the line
halting and journeying, straightening out clothes,
working silently, with your naked, dextrous hands
Until, you finally leave
a trail of white-wash
bleached and bloated
as the wind gathers in their emptiness
like my thoughts of you.
You pick up your bucket to go indoors
after inspecting your handiwork
with a brief, contented glance
You then caress a shirt a bit here
and place an extra pin there
And I sigh, suddenly feeling neglected.
You turn to leave
But I continue to stand in the sun
in my white robe
My hair still damp and glistening.
I feel drowsy in this warmth
and dream of being picked up by my waist
and pegged to the line by you.
I nuzzle with shut eyes, still dreaming,
against the crisp white shirt fluttering
on my face – the starch smells sweet and dry