Tuesday Poem: Jeff Crandall

After the Papers Are Filed

The laundry's tumbling comes to a stop.
Now sheets are white like so many smiles.
Slowly, slowly the hands of the clock

have wring each shirt, each mismatched sock.
We've finally sorted our dirt into piles.
The laundry's tumbling comes to a stop,

demanding folding, order. And, too, the mop
in the corner needs to be held, enduring these trials
slowly, slowly. The hands of the clock

cover its grinning face. How easy to mock
failure. How easy to reach for the scotch while
the laundry's tumbling. Come to a stop

now and you'll never start again. I drop
softeners in the machine: Cold. Low. Pull the dial.
Slowly, slowly, the hands of the clock

point to me. It's no worse than learning to walk
after a bypass. So join a gym, get a spaniel --
The laundry's tumbling comes to a stop.
Slowly. Slowly. The hands of the clock.

---

Jeff Crandall is a poet and glass artist living in Seattle. I'm a big fan of his Poet's Bottles --


Jeff's other sculptural work can be seen here.

For more Tuesday poems, please click here.