Each stain has a story—
the oatmeal from today’s breakfast,
the grass stain darkened into the knee
of the jean, blood from a bright red pen
lining a pocket. It all turns to gossip
in the wash.
Our past mistakes are drowned,
our clothes saved, stripped clean,
with no evidence of carelessness
or neglect to be found.
We are given another chance
yet always the clothes look exhausted
after the tumble and dry
as if something of our past lives
has been beaten out of them,
as if the sweat and stains
are sworn to secrecy.
As if the ground-in dirt
was proof of lives
(I don't know how to tab over in Blogger--the second stanza starts with a tab.)