I Do My Washing

Cathedral

I forgot to put the tablets in first,
So I had to take it all out again.
Does that really make a difference?
Why do they need to be next to the drum?
Do they miss the drum?
Does the separation hurt them?
I do my washing and I think about you.
I do the hoovering and I think of you.
I load the dishwasher and then,
129 minutes later,
I unload it, steam condensing on my glasses.
Blind, I think about you.

I clean the hob because it’s covered in crap,
Spitters and spatters from meals for one I’ve cooked
While thinking about you.
I buy a special brush from Lakeland,
It’s on sale.
A bargain.
And now I can clean behind the taps.
That’s so important, don’t you think?
What would happen if I had a visitor
And she saw that I had not-shiny-enough taps?
I think about that when I buy the brush.
No, I’m lying, I think about you.

I hoover around the bed you used to lie in,
Softly snoring, occasionally kicking your legs
When you had doggie dreams.
The most beautiful thing I have ever seen
Or will ever see.
I clean the bath, perhaps too much
Since my fingerprints shrivel like my life
And I think of hugging you in towels,
Tickling you till you pleaded for mercy
But I gave no quarter.
And now I would give everything, anything.

Another week.
I do my washing.
I hoover.
I dust the top of the doors.
Fuck knows why.