Forever pink
by Jan Marin Tramontano

I gather clothes littering the bedroom
floor, chair, and bed:

a pair of jeans, stained red with
Friday night’s pizza
           
a band shirt considered
then carelessly tossed down
on a wet towel

a damp terry gym sock draped
over a purple sock with no mate,

a faded green sweatshirt
tinged with lipstick, forever pink

I empty pockets filled with change,
wrinkled notes, half eaten lollipop,
barrette,  silver earring.

I collect the disorder
separate white from color,
delicate from durable,
fill the machine with hot
bubbling water, and
breathe in the soapy smell,
.
I pull out the wet wash and decide
which can withstand the heat,
which must air dry in its own time

I fold, smooth and stack the vivid palette
fresh again, unmarred, in order.