The Laundry in Kilmanaugh

by Christopher Dungey

tautly unfurls on clotheslines

rigged by wives of migrant workers—

blue denim shirts their men wear

while chopping weeds out of sugar beet

rows, and white ones for the front porch.

All snap in a dry sou’wester, likely

kicking up whitecaps in shallow Saginaw

Bay. Small craft warnings caution, crackling

from a marine band broadcast. But Sunday

work for field hands is guaranteed.

Most flat acreage above the last joint

of the Thumb is host to a family or two,

their backs against the driven dust.

Kilmanaugh hides behind its trees

at the patient four-way stop. These roar

their June breath of new leaves

but screen fresh the laundry. Near

the junction sits an abandoned general

store with a rusted Shell gas pump;

and Kelly’s Tavern, open Saturday

nights only. I count a dozen frame

houses, a church with cars baking,

eight white windmills just beyond

the village limits. I’ll go wax my deck,

at least; rub teak oil into the hatch

covers while raven-haired women

at the edge of Kilmanaugh hug faded

jeans into baskets, their dresses

trying to billow like spinnakers.

BIO: Chris Dungey is a retired auto worker in MI. He rides a mountain bike and a Honda scooter for the planet; follows Detroit City FC and Flint City Bucks FC with religious fervor. More than 170 of his poems have been published online or in litmags. Most recently in Hood of Bone Review, Dipity Lit Mag, Cyprus Review, Bramble Online, and The River (Sandy River Review), and Bulb Culture. Forthcoming in Poetry Lighthouse.