Monica and Victor come over to my place
to do their laundry
because there's nothing at their place.
They show up on Sunday
with faded dresses, frayed shirts
and dusty blankets,
placing them with great care
into the squat, barrel-chested wringer
(the whites unsorted from the coloureds).
I put a country ‘n’ western record on
while the clothes and blankets squish—
S'fump S'fump S'fump—
turning the water a dull red.
In the lounge room
Monica and Victor sit in green cane chairs
sipping tea and reading comics.
We speak very little to each other.
I don't want to scare them away—
We are trying very hard.
Our relationship has grown, so slowly—
from nothing to laundry.