where the writers are
waiting for the washing machine

Waiting for the shirts and the trousers to spin dry

at 40 degrees and forgotten how many revs

there is always those sounds like machine indigest

-ion, when you know that it now is in the home run

of the cycle, the breaking of waters, the vibrat

-ion, then the spinning like there is a russian

airliner in the kitchen, followed by a plecking

of the tumbler, and finally it rolls to a halt

when you like an expectant father rush

in to see if the delivery  was fine, and out comes

a person in parts, your trousers tangled up into

a knot of tenseness as if they were sitting

some final examination, the shirts embracing

each other, and strong smell of afterwash,

you then hang them up on the line to dry

inspecting each one for injury caused during

the spin, but for now they are all clean and bright

as if they were manufactured only today.