Sanctification:
Hip deep in murk, in water over muck
I stretch my off-white, splotched-brown
pants across the scrub-board bridge
between the jungle bank and home.
Suds and soil mingle in the cleaning
toil of the bristle brush breaking
down cloth and widening
my underdrawers from waist to crotch.
After hours of wringing
sheets and towels and scrubbing
collars, I get out
like an old man
and leave the blue bar of jabon
to glue itself down...
The wrinkles of my dirty
shirt have gone inside my fingertips.
I am my own
sock: a little cleaner and longer,
yet left wrung and wrong-
side-out and hung up
to dry and fade stiff.
Oh, to be Christ's sock!
I can only wait the coming
take-down and the hard-
heeled foot that will break
my crust and make me
worn and fit again.
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