Old washing machine is only dead weight,
Its ballast an aggregate of odours
And memories, washed-out life stains rinsing
Fades but doesn’t remove. Now though it must be
Hauled from its dedicated niche behind
Matching unit doors. My son has method
And muscle, is lithe enough to squeeze through
To turn off and disconnect the hoses
In a way I once would have for my dad
As he stood aside as I stand aside,
Letting the job be done efficiently.
Just twelve months ago I carried dad
In the crook of my arm where once I held
My infant son. He’d wriggled, was lively,
While dad, desiccated, being interred in
A glossy cardboard cylinder like one
Of the more obscure malts he liked to sip,
Was also difficult to hold. After
Easing the old thing out there is a space,
A vacancy the son eventually
Fills with a new appliance for his dad.
Dave Alton
