The Laundry Woman

The laundry load; it grows and grows.
Would that it were gold.
Woe betide the laundry woman
when the washing machines break down.
One after another, leaving the laundry woman in the lurch,
struggling with the loads of laundry,
making do with fewer pairs of hands.

Yet empathetic or understanding the Master was not.
Sew on the dangling buttons; trim the edges of the garment ...
Ever-growing, the laundry woman's pie certainly was!
How about more washing machines, my dear Sir?

The air closing on her, like a rope tightening round her neck ...
but survive she must,
for many mouths she has to feed back home.