Every minute of every day you wait patiently, a quandary,
Oh, there is nothing as loyal as a pile of laundry.
A constant source of something to do,
You beckon to us, always, ever anew.

A vibrant array of colors and textures, a kaleidoscope, oh glory!
Each lifeless, limp item, a garment with its own story.
A muddy lacrosse game. A long, sweaty run in the heat.
A record of what was for dinner, literally at our feet.

Bodily functions that prove we are human?
They ferment in the pile awaiting our viewing.
Oh Laundry, you document our every day.
A montage of the years we have shared along the way.

From baby yellow poop to toddler brown skids,
From spit-up to puke, you must think we are pigs.
From sour smelling t-shirts of sweet pre-pubescent tweens,
To the full-on funk of the now grown-up teens.

Piles and piles of laundry with a smell so strong,
We have to sort it with a gas mask on.
Laundry, you remind us of our blessed sense of smell,
And what it might be like if we end up in hell.

Sheets, towels, clothes and so, so many socks,
You are why we end each day with whiskey on the rocks.
The folding is mind numbing, but, oh, the sock pairing,
It’s the root cause of so much of our swearing.

Yes, Laundry we love to hate you, which isn’t quite fair,
For the minute the washer breaks, we panic with fear.
And you teach us profound lessons of life,
Like, how fleeting clean, folded clothes are, so much strife!

How nothing on earth lasts forever,
Except dirty clothes, which will end never.

Yes, Laundry, you are our boulder, and we are your Sisyphus,
“How long,” we cry, “can we possibly keep doing this?”
And yet without you would be awash in our own dirt,
So, we shall be at your side until the very last shirt.

-The End (It never ends.)

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