There was a man who would wash his clothes every Tuesday
At the launderette on the corner of the street.
For fourteen years he’d never stray
In the loneliness of the midnight hour.
Nobody knew why this man chose this routine
When the place was never that busy,
But the mundane task was not what it seemed –
For the man was doing more than just his laundry.
In the silent hour he climbed in the drum
With the clothing, liquid ball and all.
When he clambered in, the door shut on his bum
As if by some magical force.
In thirty minutes spin he would fall out,
Damp and fresh and gasping breath,
And within the clothes lay fat dead trout
And strange artefacts from far away lands.
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