Mom's old wringer washer was an ominous contraption,
Back porch dweller, silent sentinel.
But wash day saw it spring to life
With reckless wild abandon,
A fire-breathing dragon sent from
hell.
Water drawn from nearby well
To feed her empty belly,
Carried pail by pail 'til she was full.
Grinding agitation as she
Mauled her fabric diet,
Everything from silk to scratchy
wool.
Mother's little helpers would
Complain and run away,
Much too busy for such mundane
tasks.
Totally exasperated, trudging on
ahead,
She'd grit her teeth and don her
mother's mask.
Washing, wringing, rinsing, ringing,
Ringing once again,
Seemed a never-ending carousel.
Difficult but necessary,
Mom did not complain.
She tamed the weekly dragon sent
from hell.
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