as it’s never done, and one
finds the way to love the work, the doing,
the being in it, rather than the hope of rest,

I wrestle the tangles of wet clothes
out of the washer, into the pillowcase-turned-laundry-bag,
into the rolling cart, into the bumpy streets toward home,
knowing that the work, which is now an art,
of hanging each piece up to dry is before me.

My soggy clothes will garland my small apartment.
wet socks dangling, why do I have so many t-shirts?

{Oh, for a clothesline strung across a meadow, and
a gentle breeze to blow my clothes, and
just enough sun to get the job done}

The job that does not end, just clicks forward
to the next task, checks off the last. Meditate
on the work, meditate in the work.
Each piece placed on a hanger or a clip or folded
over the drying rack, one by one. No longer madness,
but a meticulous presence.

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