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Ken Poyner



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.

Jeffrey Alfier Matin_Bleu.jpeg
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