Washing Cycle Poem by Gerald Sedillo

Woman with her white washing
machine; forever whirling clothes,
soiled from days of endless
stresses. Her wait, the work soothing
days of blight, of her woes.
Its rumble of unwavering duress.

Friend of hers, its embrace
of cold steel bringing warmth to her,
never tiring of its
duties. It smiles with her silk lace
when her approach occurs.
Undying friend is there to commit.

Lighting blasts away their
life. Alone today, gun smoke traced.
No one there now, all alone
with that off-blue metal Frigidaire.
Scars which deeply pain, graced
existence, the washing machine now shown.

Hole in her life, window
of chaos, is closed along its lid.
Closed as the wash cycle
starts on the hour, its darkened glow.
End of days and her mid-
night, cutting pains away, a sickle.