The Old Clothesline

It’s time to tear the clothesline down;

iron poles once held it high,

our laundry dancing for all to see,

flapping against the sky.

“Bring in the clothes!” dear mom would shout,

before the rains would roar.

Then back they’d go, into the fresh air,

when sunshine shone once more.

*

The stains of food and dirt and blood,

attacked like deadly foes.

Then plunged and drowned in a soapy flood

‘til they were white as snow.

The sheets brought forth from off our beds,

the pants with holey knees,

from laundry basket they were plucked,

unfurled like sails at sea.

*

When came that great metallic hulk,

no more our clothes would wave.

Now our secrets we would keep,

our dignity we saved.

No underwear waves like a flag

since the dryers went on sale,

breaking free and going airborne

with each strong gust, or gale.