Hi christina
Yes, this is either a "possibly" or, as likely, a "certainty" for the
Sonnets of a single life...
I really enjoy the rhymes (their subtlety, the different spellings of words
that surprise and much as delight me when I hear them link) and then the
last rhyme in the final couplet where my eyes, and my ears, agree with each
other at last.
The only word I would wonder about myself is the word "spills" and the whole
phrase "spills of rancid milk" implies the milk was sour/rancid when it was
spilt (and I sort of assume it may have turned rancid before it got into the
machine).
All else (and almost that as well) is a delight to see and read!
Bob



You are a Meissen of machines, my Bosch.
    When I dispensed the enzyme soap I knew
    only the strength of your Intensive Wash
    could renovate and make my fibres glow.
    The trickle of warm water as you churn
    seeps into spots - the spills of rancid milk,
    dark marks of sex and ink, the dye of wine -
    I have surrendered all to Extra Soak.
    Deep in your swell of suds they'll toss and reel -
    your constant pulse and scientific care
    will drain and rinse and drain and rinse until
    your hydrosensor knows the water's clear.
    And when you spin I'll watch your drum rotate:
    your vortex, where my stains evaporate.

>   christina fletcher




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