Ken Poyner
Laundress
We marvel how the blind woman
Manages to hang clothes on her line
Stretching twenty yards straight
As county drainage ditches behind
Her small poor-folk house. Finding
The line itself is a mystery, though
By now the path from back door
To the line’s beginning pole must be
Well worn, understandable by feel
Of foot alone. Once she has
A thing in her hand it is known.
She twirls and upends cloth until
The gravity is right and then
A pin in two fingers, the clothing
Ungnarled, she captures the line
And craftily suspends the damp article.
The taking down is machine work, a hand
On the line, pins in her apron pocket,
A basket pulled moment by moment
Heavier behind her. Her son
Bought her a new electric drier,
Had the house electric box reworked
To fit the needs of the appliance. She
Says the buttons are too confusing,
The whir and announcement chimes
Interfere with her own aural
Radar, and the clothes do not smell
Like clothing that has been dried
In the real. Thank you, but no.
