A Reminder (Great Cranberry Island)

It is one sort of evidence of living:
            a wash hung in the yard
between the house and a tree or some such
            arrangement for holding things off
the ground. Sheets snap like sails,
            a bra trails a strap, its
guard let down. An only shirt (tropical
            fish pattern) flutters about
till its arms entangle or go limp for
            want of wind. What's dry

gets taken in before the dusk dampens it,
            the vacation over so to speak.
Once more a faded yellow towel will fold
            neatly in three or someone's
favorite pants be re-mended. Crisp linen
            may twist beneath lovers
excited to old desires by the freshness
            upon which they lie.
And as one supposes every household has

            its weakness, so each home
the length of this island has a wash.
            But of certain things
one must be, from time to time, reminded:
            happiness, for instance,
mortality, and even (and this is my argument)
            that wide assortment
of odd clothing that droops in the dark,
            forgotten tonight, haunting
the house to which we are all attached
            by a good strong cord.

                          for William Kienbusch, 1914-1980

Copyright © 2006 Carl Little All rights reserved
from Ocean Drinker
Deerbrook Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission