Gerry Jacobson
Hanging Out
ancient
washing machine
dances
through the laundry…
it’s lost its bearings
It’s the days of long hair and babies so we use cloth nappies and wash them every single day. I tie my climbing rope from tree to tree and we hang the nappies out on that. The rope eventually rots and is replaced by nylon cord.
five bras
dangle in a fig tree
assorted
undies adorn the plum
the breeze blows them dry
Housemate complains when I grow things underneath. Like zucchinis and pumpkins which spread through the summer. Sometimes she refuses to go out there, and I have to blaze a trail through the plants to peg the washing on the line and take it off. I love doing this on summer afternoons when it’s warm and dry. The scent of sunshine.
Then one day I go out and forget to bring the dry washing in. It starts to rain. It rains every day for a week, and the washing stays out there all that time. Things get a bit mouldy.
Monday morning
plum blossom drifts like snow
the sun rises
green dustbins stand waiting
in our street
About the Author
Gerry Jacobson lives in Canberra, Australia, and can be found writing tanka in its cafes. He was a geologist in a past life and now celebrates reincarnation as a dancer.