Next Time

Next time I write a poem
I'll include that washing machine.
"It sounds like it's taking off!" you said
as we waited for the taxi to the airport.
Wind was lashing the rain
heavily against the windows
and turning the umbrellas inside out.

Next time I will write about the heat of Africa,
the long range of black mountains,
and taking-off in the air-conditioned aircraft cabin,
crowded with passengers,
seats in the upright position,
magazines in their backs,
trays stacked away by busy stewardesses.

Next time I will include doing the washing
outside in the dirt yard
with a hard bar of soap,
cold water, and a rough board;
whites hanging bleached in the African sun.

Back here, our washing sits in the basket.
Multi-coloured clothes,
smelling of Africa,
waiting for my attention.