My Raincoat
is impervious
to my comfort
as it brings on storms.
It also deceives,
falsely predicting fine weather
so that I will not disturb it.
It’s my mistake
to trust it and its plan
to be left hanging.
My Voicemail
invents stories
including the character
that pretends it’s leaving messages.
I am unsure
as to what’s true
and what’s fiction,
although it’s never untrue
that someone, somewhere
wants me to call them back.
My Laundry
wants to confess.
It has its dirty secrets
and wants now to come clean.
I know hot water and suds
grant forgiveness
if turbulently
and the sun bleach
of clothesline disinfects
every confession hung out to dry.