this week’s last load of laundry has me stealing
my son’s precious teenage time I reenact the duty
of my father and what comes hammering back
are trips with him pushing his cart of dirties down
the street his southern charm waving or shaking
hands—: bus driver mailman neighbors get
countless invites to dinner or a Saturday bbq
my father’s good morning darlin’ clanks & pings
as quarters spill into the bona fide grip
of the present my son’s hands show signs
he’s ready for the tedious work ahead as he storms
through pile after pile then his precision when offering
assistance to a stranger this chore becomes a lesson
for the two of us this shared work turns and tumbles
neatly folds—: a fond memory
