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Laundry

I used to wring out sheets with
you
grasping one end tightly and
I the other, and I
had spun and spun and spin
wrenching the essence from this
twisted rope of cloth as
my arms grow heavy, weary and
the ache in my shoulders creeps
fiery to my fingertips: so
we
dropped it
spent and airy
on the earth.

I wish that I might wring
this moist soul thus
free my self of its leaden dripping
(I would not even mind the ache!) but
would that not require
you
or, rather,
we
to take opposing ends?

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