I had to stop writing my poem to do more important things.
The washing machine buzzed— whining again for someone to shift the wet clothes to the dryer.
An hour later, midway through the third stanza of the love poem to my wife, the dryer complained— there’s a load now dry, waiting to be folded.
I dug the mix out: half hers, half mine— mostly panties and T’s— tossed them all into the sink, then went to clean the lint trap.
The inkling of the perfect word returned as I picked up her 3x panties to make square.
—As I folded the crotch— to the waistband I knew the word wasn’t just love, but something closer, more than the partnering of seams meeting in the routine of every —wash and fold—
I tell used to quip to my students at the uni when I gave them a particularly challenging writing task, think like you are not going through writer’s block; instead, think you are sitting in a lecture room at the Writer’s Bloc and start writing. You never know what you might find with your own voice.
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