ruin
I’m having a bad dream,
no, maybe a nightmare,
of a washing machine.
It wakes me up at night.
It rumbles and whispers.
I hope it won’t take flight.
It’s moving and grooving
to a beat of its own,
that is far from soothing.
It’s a horrible sight.
A machine set to hard.
It’s ready for a fight.
I scream into my pillow.
“My clothing is all too clean,”
then I weep like a willow.
