THE LAUNDRY ABROAD
Improvising with the laundry in hotels.
In cheap rooms you can hang a towel
out over a window ledge.
A little more expensive and you hang a shirt
up over a bath, next to T-shirts and underpants.
The special status of laundry, the
You can get the hotel to do it.
Then this poem disappears. We need it
a little longer.
How many times does something exist?
Light off, light on.
At brief intervals?
I knock a glass over and the water
lies there. You don’t see it evaporate.
The underwear dries overnight.
Events, not in several moments,
but spread through time, like the
aging of a face.
Invisible, despite photos, films. No more
Eventually you can no longer stomach
exotic food. Aversion sets in before
you realise. Taking over slowly,
just take the laundry with you,
save the laundry till you’re home
or drape the striped socks
over the rail of the balcony.
A morning or an afternoon,
then they’ve disappeared.