I was washing coats
As a prelude to winter
And pulled out my wife’s parka,
Leftover from Minnesota days.
On the care tag I read,
“Dry on low
With clean tennis balls,”
And I am baffled.
I’d never throw dirty balls
Into a clean dryer
With a clean coat,
But then I don’t play tennis
So I own no such balls.
What’s a man to do?
Would other balls work—
Perhaps yellow softballs
Or dry wiffle balls?
I hang the coat back
At the far end of the closet.
Taking care of lovers
Shouldn’t demand
Such absurdities,
And, besides,
It’s only early October.
No comments:
Post a Comment