"MONDAY MORNING"

by Max Latimer
Jan 2007 

Hot cistern water was dipped,
From the cook stove reservoir,
Lugged down the unpainted stairs,
And dumped into the mechanical friend. 

There, among the brick and mortared walls,
Next to the coal burning behemoth,
More preparations were made.

The faded green bench was put in place,
Topped with a pair of galvanized tubs,
That were filled with rinse and bluing water. 

The warm soapy water provided a pleasing scent.
The washing machine made a hypnotic sound,
As the agitator repeated, “runka-runka-runka.”
In time, a lever was moved to bring silence. 

Tension was restored on the white cracked rollers.
A bleached white dowel dipped clothes from hot water.
Each item was carefully fed into the rollers. 

Bibbed overall buckles were carefully watched,
To make sure they entered horizontally.
The often-told story was quoted with caution,
Of  the girl whose complete arm,
Went through the rollers.

After trips through both rinse tubs and wringers,
The damp clothes were placed in baskets,
To be carefully carried to the back yard.

The wire lines were wiped with care.
Wrinkles were shaken out of each piece,
And clothes-pinned firmly in place. 

Props were strategically placed,
So no clothing could touch the ground.
Unmentionables were hung with modesty,
Concealed between lines of sheets and towels. 

Those beautifully smelling sheets and pillowcases,
Added fresh scents to the family’s dreams.
A nice clean wash spoke of renewal. 

Those young and unknowing brides,
Who hung a wash other than on Monday,
Were whispered about throughout the village.