Not amazed at the transformation from one who,

not so far away,

only laundered his own clothes,

into one who launders our clothes,

late into a Friday night,

gratefully,

without stretched-bone resentment,

without so much as glancing back,

without any interest in what smaller self had been suffering.

 

So profoundly in love,

blind to his own bleached metamorphosis.

No longer comprehending life without

abundant heaps of mess,

soiled cherished artifacts,

much less imagine alternatives to life

that could unfold full

and rich

and fresh

and worthy.