In Which They Are Multiplying -- MULTIPLYING!

A ticket stub's a simple thing to toss,

To throw away, to pitch, to dispose of,

And yet today I find I'm at a loss

Regarding how these things have -- for all love --

Continued to appear whene'er I wash

The clothes I wore to TIFF screenings last week!

In white-and-tangerine, these bits do quash

My hopes of cleaned-up pockets. With a meek

And tiny mewl I fish them out and sigh.

We emptied ev'ry day, but there they are.

I quipped that they were breeding at the time,

But didn't think they really were. I'm far

From where I got them now, yet still they cling

Like memories of some long-lost dream-thing.

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The Laundrette is Not a Fun Place To Be on Friday

I'm told a watched pot, never, ever boils.
I know now that watched laundry never dries.
A half hour only gets out stains and soils
Predictably. No matter how one tries,
She can't predict how long it's going to take
To turn those duds from wet and sopping rags
To dry ones. It's a thing she cannot fake
Or hasten with a round of pleads and nags.
A pressing appointment or hot date?
That's not the dryer's fault; she might have come
To get a sooner start. It's worth the wait
To have clean clothes, though, even if it's dumb
To watch one's garments tumble round and round
Is actually somewhat soothing, I have found.