Delicate Washing

Delicate Washing

When a new delicate garment
Develops need of care,
Washing becomes a special art,
A girl wouldn't botch on a dare.

You fill the wash basin with water:
Not too hot, not too cold.
Add the correct amount of detergent,
Then ever so gently fold.

Pull the plug, and the swill will drain.
Rinse ever so gently with fresh water,
Without twisting, and wringing the shape away,
Lay flat in a space. It'll dry like it ought to.

Never so brutal as to twist and wring.
Never to squeeze, bringing a waterfall.
Never to splash from the washing sink,
Leaving a misshapen garment.
How displeasing to hand and eye it would be
Like some doggedly mangled, precious mink.

Never twist to wring me,
Don't press me quite so hard.
Never twist and wring me,
Or I'll be the one on my guard.

If you'd only treat me as nicely
As you treat your delicate clothes.
If you could keep from dragging me in:
Warn me plans are fairy castles in the air.

Life's all really just an illusion,
But I saw me sell my home.
Disconnected, in utter confusion,
Unfamiliar, with familial space to roam.

Talk went on for days with the agent,
As well as the night in my dreams.
This is the way we ought to live.
This is how things should be.

My porous conscious permeated with respect,
But my adrenalin-fed thinking, is scattered awry.
When things start to get underway,
Life ends up a cartoon bubble in the sky.

You fill me with your love.
I so want to soak it up.
But, this wringing, emotional handling,
Leaves me feeling like less than enough.