The travelling dress

Drawing of a dress being blown by the wind
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.

 

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