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.


About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

So what do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s