The travelling dress — a poem

Laundry drying in a Wellington wind

On that wild exotic trip
I was jammed and crammed
and tightly rolled.

In that wild exotic place
I was worked like a drone
I was worn to the bone.

Back in our mild old humdrum home
I am washed and I am hung
on a clothes horse in the sun

And I go tripping in the wind
flung so hard and bright and high—
at home I’m a junked-up butterfly.