I wish I could write erotic poetry about laundry day like Erica Jong does:
This is the dirty laundry poem—
because we have traveled from town to town
accumulating soiled linen & sweaty shirts
& blue-jeans caked & clotted with our juice
& teeshirts crumpled by our gloriously messy passion
& underwear made stiff by all our joy.
No, my laundry poetry would sound a little more like
This shirt, perfectly clean
has been kicked from corner to corner
absent a hanger
accumulating dust and cat hair
until it’s as filthy as everything else
that comes through here
I’m not sure which poem would embarrass my mother more.