Washing Machine

Khia Ngo, Reporter

Clothes running around in a constant cycle
The washer humming a tune
Twirling cloths around its fingers
Devouring dirt off garments


Tossing and turning throughout the night,
Offering us fresh linens in the morning.
Supplying warmth I need to get through the cold nights.


But my machine’s youth is long gone
Replacing it might come soon
At first the washer roared with anger
Then weeping with suds
Now sulking with rust built up around it
Patiently waiting for its untimely end.