Member-only story
Ode to Mt. Washmore
A housekeeper’s lament
I don’t have a lawn
For they always need mowing
I don’t have a garden
They always need hoeing
My iron is idle
My vacuum is mute
I don’t wash the car
And I don’t give a hoot
I’ve only one kid
I can barely keep fed
I nap all the time now
So why make the bed?
The cooking I’ll live with
It comes with the eating
The dishes I’ll do without taking a beating
Why then, oh why, am I still inundated
With work that keeps piling up unabated?
It’s laundry that stalks me
Both daytime and night
With a pile of t-shirts, towels, colored and white
Underwear, sweatpants,
Flannels and jeans,
Folded and stacked on the dryer it leans,
It grows ever higher until the vibration
Impacts the stack and provokes inundation
Of clothing and hassle
For now, I’m not sure
Which ones are vile, which clean-scented pure
Clothing that’s strewn on the not-so-clean floor
