Shirts are hanging on the dryer rack
facing this way, that way, all askew.
Pressed ones- never worn -pushed to the back,
thread-worn fabric-favorites- still in view.
All the trousers worn throughout the week,
a time when all the clothing is reborn,
cycled through the wash and wear to seek,
yet, when the day is come, some never worn.
Moved from wash and rinse to spin and dry,
the change in quarter marks an upward trend
past the crush of linen’s static cry,
to push the laundered load towards its end.
Then what remains, the slight adorning change
of coins and such, and shirts to rearrange.