“
So my life has come to this:
all I ever make is laundry.
Awake or asleep, I'm always
shuffling round some shopping mall,
raking through knitwear carousels
that whirl into infinity,
searching, with the fever or teething gums,
for the ultimate cardigan.
Is it any wonder the wardrobe's bursting,
the linen basket overflowing
like an archive of disproved hypotheses?
The grey bras, the shrinking T-shirts,
that embarrassed puddle of lycra,
my favourite dress -- now ruined dress --
my lost remembered, perfect dress:
all laundry, in the end. More laundry.
”
”