Poetry of the washing machine

The washing machine
really doesn’t want
to wash my dirty

it wants to
walk down
the street

It wants to
break free
from its weighted

and run free
to the meadows
where weeds
live with the flowers

it wants to spit
out my socks
and jeans

and run free
swear words

The washing machine
knows poetry
as I do

I am guilty it is inanimate
and cannot escape

Well only in this poem


15 thoughts on “Poetry of the washing machine”

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