The thirtieth poem from my poetry collection Conception.

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Washing

Loaded twice daily, it still keeps on coming,
like the animals onto the ark
(and more species than you’ve seen in a zoo!).
The socks go in two by two
(though they never come out in pairs).
There are blue bodysuits with mustard seed stains
(or soaked by a fountain of wee),
some sour milk-swamped muslins,
pink puke-splattered sheets,
a pile of wet pants
(oh, and toddler trousers and tops!),
some dinner-drowned bibs
and T-shirts where he’s bled red paint.
They all take their place in my multi-wash ark
as a flood of soapy water sets them off in a spin.
And, while they slosh and froth in the raging foam,
I salute the stout-hearted souls
who’ve braved cloth nappies,
and hope we all find dry land soon.