folding laundry

folding laundry in
the basement, the floor cool,
the dryer holding another
load, spinnng with the
click of coins and buttons
i failed to remove from
pockets, there is no one
here but me, i listen to the
wind through the small
crease of window, like a
sigh, a whistle. it's a
simple task, this folding,
and one that can wait, but
i let that thought go by
and quietly fold, and stack,
there is no metaphor
to find in this, no twist
or turn to ponder in the
act. it's life, doing what
has to be done, never to be
known or talked of, like
so much of what we do.