Not half so dislocating for the fantasized self
As the cold water in the lake, the steamy air
Of the dowdy but serviceable launderette
That Wendy Harlock bought so that hikers
And campers would continue to find
The Slocan at least as welcoming now as in
The era of hippies vs. loggers, draft dodgers
And back-to-Earthers like herself comforted.
Machines and textiles, marriage made
In dark satanic mills two centuries ago, long
As marriages go, renewing their vows,
Tumbled together. Body sat at the window
With a view of an alternately drizzly, sunny,
Mostly empty street and the snowy ice field
Hanging over the green cone of Valhalla.
We have to get clean, have to attend
To our maintenance, from the earliest of all
Life forms to the last. We are machines,
Washing and drying our textile selves
For the sole purpose of wearing out threads.
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