Today’s Poem

As I mentioned before, I’ve decided to write a poem a day. Sometimes I will post them on the blog. Unless they are egregiously terrible. This one, to be sure, is terrible. But not egregiously so, and I will therefore post it.

I think a lot of writers have ghosts in their basements. I think the ghosts are drawn to us. I have one. She is obsessed with laundry. Here is her poem.

The ghost in the basement
taps her brittle fingers against the dryer.


“I’ve separated the whites and the darks,” I say.
“I’ve pre-treated,” I say.
She sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose.


She taps the dryer as I gather clothes,
heavy and damp in my arms,
and ripe with the stink of living.


She taps as I add the soap,
turn on the water,
and wash the life away.


Her fingernails are bitten to the quick;
her skin is old paper;
her mouth a bright, hot coal.

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