The Haruspex

The Haruspex

He makes little parcels of his dirty clothes,
wrapping his pastel shirts around the dark,
discarded jocks and socks,
as though he were making sacred offerings,
folding the skins of animals
around the softer, still-warm innards.
And I, High Priestess of the Hotpoint, must unbundle
these votive gifts, time after time.
No use intoning, as I do, "Please separate
the whites and coloured things."
To him, there is no magic
unless the ritual is obeyed.
He likes to feel, perhaps, that I am always there
unveiling the mystery of his underwear,
standing beside the Altar-of-all Cleansing,
Reading the omens as the tangled sleeves revolve.
Sometimes, I wish I understood.
But all I see are years
of patiently unpicking light from shade;
summoning order out of chaos;
banning grime.
And wondering what love is all about
at laundry time.