I’m having a bad dream,

no, maybe a nightmare,

of a washing machine.


It wakes me up at night.

It rumbles and whispers.

I hope it won’t take flight.


It’s moving and grooving

to a beat of its own,

that is far from soothing.


It’s a horrible sight.

A machine set to hard.

It’s ready for a fight.


I scream into my pillow.

“My clothing is all too clean,”

then I weep like a willow.