Spin Cycle by Nikki Carr

I grow weary of your soiled
jeans, shirts and shoes piled
high to the tops of my lid,
trying to maintain
an even temperature, though
my quiet calm keeps me on the job,
retrieving lost socks,
stones, tissues and coins;
those discarded things
left naturally in pockets,
making it next to impossible
to rest busy hands
soaked in sweat and crust
from recurring baths
of chemicals in soapy water
needed to kill germs,
wash away the dust
and evidence of the day,
only to find once
malleable, youthful
hands which washed
many a load and
managed your daily
discards, then with the
passage of time, my
tub eroded, my
cycle stopped,
my good days are past;
my best ones are yet to come.