Two Laundry Poems: Folding Laundry in Rome & Brautigan’s Craft

Folding Laundry In Rome


Perhaps they were songbirds

squabbling outside

in the trees

They seem not to notice that

the sun engulfs

them and warms their feathers

They squawk in spite of an absence

of the dark and spitting clouds

that until yesterday had plagued

my short Roman Holiday

These birds should be rejoicing,

singing hosannas

Instead, they peck at each other

and I stand inside folding laundry

before it wrinkles.




Brautigan’s Laundry


A dirty shirt rinsed in whiskey

and put into a hot drier, then forgotten;

coming out still dirty, smelling of booze,

and more wrinkled than ever.

I had entered Richard Brautigan's houses,

cabins, hotel rooms, apartments

and not only gone through his filthy laundry,

but tried it all on, piece by piece

Writing is laundry (is this a poem within a poem?)

When all the shirts have been washed,

dried, and hung. After the socks cleaned and matched

put into drawers; still a dark bundle remains

That bundle is the writing. Where does it come from

how does one sort, wash, and dry it without shrinking

the silk, without ruining the beauty and warmth of a

thick woolen sweater?

How does one sort and fold, compose and edit and

bring into focus those thoughts, these words

these glimmering details that went unseen before you

threw them into the wash and hung them

to dry in the moonlight ?

Brautigan washed and hung and folded each word.

He kept the ironing to a minimum and didn't use starch.

His words were free of fabric softener.

Richard was a dedicated man,

to his metaphorical laundry, if little else.

He washed and folded every day, then went

out and burned through the other parts of life

The hours spent alone with his soap and water

were his most vulnerable

what came of that time looks so quick and easy

giving the impression of a lack of seriousness.

Craftsmanship is what goes into creating the soft folds

in a freshly laundered shirt, that when worn doesn't show

that the shirt had ever been folded or that it had been

anywhere but hanging beautifully on your skin.