Poem by Mary Hobson

Laundry Blues

I sort all the dirty clothes night after night.
Delicate dark, delicate light,
tough dark, white wash, cold wash only,
separate piles. What it means to be lonely.
Pour in the powder and press the right switch.
Why do I care what’s with what, which is which?
Would it be terrible, day after day,
to stuff them all in under ‘delicate grey’?
To dance all night in the delicate dark,
greet the dawn in the delicate light of the park,
while the tough dark days are white-washed out
and the cold wash boils till its steam runs out?

1. The Counsellors
2. Snow in Zaraisk
3. Waterloo Station
4. Now I will always know that you died
5. The pain’s the same size as the love

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