The washer dies, but not for thee. Soft, after only two years in strident disavowal of sumptuary apparel, for a night, the basement, save for the gurgle of yon fecund sewage below, is silent as a tomb.
I will bundle all for the laundromat, read on a bench. I shall in horror, mix the darks with the whites once again, all grey, poorer for the arrival of the usurper. I remember how the old cheap washer would dance with an ill-placed rug in its drum, verily.
What is a dryer alone? A filthy oven, no less. Lint traps forgotten, lost maps woven in the wind no more.
My clothes grey for a spell, fragrant from the roaring dryers. I ask the road on the Sabbath, a man of sacks and baskets, patched, dispatched and stitched to purgatory’s linoleum heated and vibrating fields, carry us. Dance again, my brother. Dance again!
Fifty State Banana 