Doggerel seldom finds a home in dogma. But on – we are assured – rare occasions the free market slips its seal and in floods calamitous drivel.
On laundry days like today, one gets to wash away some of the detritus, clean clear the pulp. And canon is best formed when clean.
The downside of up thoughts contain
a bit of rigor doing laundry figures.
In dirty powder traced thinkings
of frocks, I stick a finger’s landing,
and realize the reality of my room.
For laundry landings are no tomb.
I think last of clocks and back to what
fell between cloaks and bonnets past.
Punches and flicks, eyebrow ticks tocking.
A furrow sorrowed, tailored cuckold tales told.
Stepping boots in the muck. All things smelled small.
Salted wine tasting sailors bristled among
mistletoe greased plates. Machined wheels in perfect
forms rolling out like piping pies, and stories warred.
A history of fingers grinning, standing roared.
Tracing past steps sprung animate fast —
my laundry room door. Possible pills and pull,
uphill tells, poker cards, ash fireplace shards.
All things telled drawl, banking stores now filled
this room with old reality. A history of sinners
fingering my mind from afar clockwise.
And once burst forth from this mist of lies,
I turn riled and cry, “Where’s my socks?!”