Rest has come again. The cars
push their echoes, reading the road like braille.
The tired squeek of a single tricycle rolls home.
I look up to see a half-moon not quite included
by the Power Co-op/Truck Service signs.
It has time yet to land safely in the dark.
The last patch of dirt in front of the new GTC
has hardened into asphalt.
Again, there is time.
I find myself folding the laundry
more slowly than I could. It is a simple thing to do.
A thing missed, like picking fruit
or sanding wood. Also the warmth.
Clothes have the patience of old friends:
with open doors, always on my side.
Getting the Laundry
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