The Writer at Home (Sonnet)

Hanging all this laundry, I’m distracted
By words that rattle round inside my head,
They shake the bars of their dark, bony prison,
And shout at me, Release us, or we’re dead!
So I must drop these wet black shirts and hurry,
Opening my hands to let them out,
For if I make them wait for just five minutes,
The petulant little buggers hide and pout.
My mildewed laundry’s sad, but it’s much sadder
When a line I loved escapes my grasp,
So there lie piles of wet clothes while I sit here,
Typing very poorly but still fast.
The laundry has to wait until I drain
The words and images that crowd my brain.

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About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
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