"Laundry"

one pile expands in the bedroom

a second blocks the hallway’s path

a third’s stuffed into a hamper

another explodes in our bath

mutating exponentially

as every day passes by

an alien infiltration

makes all our clothing multiply

on Saturday mornings I climb

over mountainous stinky stacks

by shifting and swiftly sorting

they yield to my vicious attacks

whites swirl into boiling water

while colors churn in icy cold

then they tumble in fluffy air

once dried, each gets a tidy fold

the end of a tedious day

finds every item in its place

fatigue anchors me to the couch

where I know I’ve won the race

 . . . until next week!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman