Old Mother

Old mother is washing
clothes under tap water.
Its thrashing sound, a
stout ghost’s footsteps,
stomp-a, stomp-a, halt;
is making the house jump
like a sponge ball. Torn
years ago, from a hopeful girl,
pink, a cord, is put up
to hang the wet garbs
of her careless, unkind men,
stern in love;
in the shade. In the sun.

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