The Zen of Laundry

You rest leaning one hand 
on each side of the tub
its steady vibration lulls  
as the water starts to churn
a foamy whirlpool of gray –
a white sock rises to the surface
lingers for seconds
is sucked down again
a struggling swimmer
fighting for life in swirling rapids
where on summer evenings reckless
teenagers plunge off the rocks
heedless of signs warning Danger
a shirt sleeve rises, billows, collapses
the last feeble wave of an arm.

A gray ring circles the rim
where each day water rose
and fell leaving behind a tidal mark 
dense with tiny threads of fabric 
lumps of detergent, grit
and you remember those wavy lines 
of foam tides leave 
on the beach, speckled 
with seaweed, jelly fish, driftwood
tempting you to pause
and stoop and gather
a plastic pail of treasures
now you can even smell
the ozone, hear the sound 
of waves shifting pebbles
and from far out at sea
the forlorn drone of foghorn blending 
into the hum of washing machine.

© Margaret Malloch Zielinski