I'm a slave to the laundry.

It tumbles before my feet as if to worship me.

But it is the master and I am the slave.

I gather it's heaping mass.

Socks fall from the corners that are out of my reach,

Gracefully stroking my fingertips on their descent.

The change starts chanting in my pockets.

It's calling to me and I must obey.

The machines light up with pleasure,

CHING, CHING, CHING

And the suds start telling me stories,

Stories of what I could be doing.

Lazy river water rafting, 

Beach ball ocean tides.

Harsh beeping brings me to reality,

The reality of who I am,

What I am doing.

I am careful not to drop the last of my delicates

They are to delicate to be left with dust bunny corpses.

CHING, CHING, CHING

I watch the hot air bring them back to life,

I witness the youth returning to them.

They begin jumping over each other and playing,

Completely unaware I already wore them.

They don't remember what they endured.

The ketchup stains have all come out,

The flour, the dirt, the grease have all come out.

They're innocence restored.

I tuck them away in their basket.

Their snores can be heard just under 

The pits and patters of the washers and dryers.

Safe at last I sink in the plastic seat and take a drink.

A droplet runs down the edge and onto my shirt.

He begins to cackle louder and louder,

And with his ever so condescending voice he says,

"See you again next week."