ON PULLING LAUNDRY
FROM THE WASHER

by Gertrude Olga Down
Ontario, Canada

A small white button,
Fallen from shirt now languishing
In local Thrift Shop,
A white shirt that once enveloped
The crisp conciseness that was you.

You of the starched shirts
Worn as shields, day by day,
Against promises, hurts.

It is satin-smooth, this white button-
Like the skin my fingers would seek
Would caress into pusling heat;
Like the skin my tongue would tease
Into love, succulent and sweet;
Soft skin, wet with anticipation,
Pressed between flat sheets and rising need.

Lying in my palm, this button
is cold and hard.
But it is all I have.

 

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[NOTE: Tower Poetry 49#1 is out of print]