Laundry Night Rises

I need clean shirts

and socks and tees.

It must be laundry night.

The most baneful

night of the apartment

renting, single guy

life.  

I need an Alfred or

Jeeves or my man

Godfrey or even a

Mary Poppins to sing

a song about a job, once

begun, is almost half

done.

Although, this hired help,

they’d all probably try to teach

me a moral lesson about

doing such tasks for yourself

and how it

builds pride and character.

I’d have to respond that

I have plenty of character

and to just wash the damn

shirts for me.

It’s the lugging of a big dirty

laundry bag up and down three

flights of stairs, it’s the waiting

in the laundry mat surrounded

by the wounded and the weird.

It’s seems there’s always some

guy in the laundry mat that has a

bloody bandage around his head.

Like he was just released from the

hospital, but needed clean clothes

more than bed rest for the concussion.

It’s expensive, it’s time consuming,

it isn’t sexy, it isn’t fun. I hate folding

my underwear in front of strangers.

Especially the ones I may

have hung on to for a bit

too long.

Laundry night is like

Judgment Night. I almost

wish to be the laundry mat’s

reckoning.

Who would have thought

I’d pray for an in unit

Washer/dryer?