They are packed like sardines.
Carelessly, like refuse in a trash can
Classless. Like a Marxist society,
Citizens of the washing basket have no status.
No rights, No privileges.
In the washing basket there are no minorities
Only dirty laundry.
They are all ready for the detergent baptism:
They all need a cleansing, they all need a rebirth.
Both the bewilderingly torn pair of socks
Comfortably sucking the cologne
From the heavily wrinkled black tux,
And the dyed designer denim
Sandwiched between classy chinos
And a pair of soiled hankies.
The laundry man cares less
About the fabric or the make
His focus is on the dirt.
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