Monday morning is coffee smells and pulley squeaks

as my mother hangs clothes on two steel lines,

strung garden-length;

wooden pegs in a pouch on the line, the next peg

in her mouth – she could even talk around it.

First pinned are sheets and towels, then pants and skirts

pulled out to dangle over the tomato plants

at the back of the yard.

Shirts and blouses next, collars down

so shoulders dry without a mark. Underwear

(never bras!) hang close to the house, almost hidden

behind the vine-covered breakfast room wall.

Socks line up just so, toes point in one direction

(The days the heels and toes face each

other is a sure sign of trouble brewing.)