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
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