It’s Monday, it’s washday, we’ll start our routine
As I stand before you prepared to come clean
And it’s hard work, our hands red from the wringing
Hauled up from the river, hung out to dry, swinging alone…
By Tuesday we’re pressing ahead anyway
The steam, the caressing, our fears smoothed away.
If we linger too long over one last goodbye,
I could be scorched by the look in your eye.
On Wednesday we’ll have seen
Such tears in the fabric, the loose gaping seam.
We’re sewing back buttons torn off in our haste
Impermanent joining, we’ve only to baste.
To market, to market, on Thursdays we buy
We pay what they ask and we don’t question why.
For restocking shelves is a gesture of trust,
Refilling canisters, spilling gold dust.
Come Friday we’ll clean up the mess that we’ve made
Order for chaos, the usual trade
For Saturday’s kneading and rising, warm fragrant decay.
On Sunday we’ll lay it to rest.
Stop work and agree that we gave it our best.
Laid on with a trowel, or stitched on a towel,
Our days are blessed. Our days are blessed.
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