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.
Wow–you weren’t kidding about your war wound not healing. Perhaps an unguent, salve, or balm is required.
I like your poem better, whatever that says about me. Great photo as always.
Alright, Ms. Smarty Pants. I think you damn well know that your poem is rad.
@fancycwabs
I picked the fuck outta that scab this weekend and it looks much better.
@chez bez
@Bette
Awww, thanks, y’all!