Tuesday, May 04, 2004

From the Things My Shaliach Never Told Me File, an impromtu ode to my washing machine:

In New York,
the city that never sleeps,
I never slept
on laundry night.

Up and down the elevator
I shlepped heavy baskets of clothes
and sheets
and a heavy box of detergent.

And an old film container full of quarters.

Would the machines all be taken?
Would there be cockroaches in my path?
Would one of my quarters turn out to be a nickel
that I mistook for a quarter--
Would I have to beg my roommate for proper change?

Would I forget about the laundry
and get into my pajamas
And then have to get dressed again to
put my wet belongings
in the dryer?

That is all in the past
A memory of the Old Country.
In the Holy Land,
I am renting a Holy Washing Machine.
It is inside my apartment

(My apartment
Because in Israel I can afford to live without

a roommate.)

I do my laundry
in my pajamas.

I do my laundry
whether I have any change or not.

I do my laundry
without waiting for the old lady from apartment 6A
to remove her towels
and sheets.

But what of the dryer?
No, no dryer here
In my apartment
In Israel.

I hang my clothes
and sheets
to dry in the Holy sun.

My clothes always smell fresh.
I have ascended
to laundry heaven.

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