Washing Lines

Tomorrow is not new
Life is suspended
on a today without end
My hope hangs
from faded blue clothespegs
I keep checking the shoulders
to stop rust stains from forming
I wish I could be like
washing hung out in the sun
spick and span and fresh and clean
fondled by the wind
Yet sometimes they make you feel ashamed
The outstretched hand not taken
an emptiness that makes my palm bleed
Now I know the stigmata were caused
not by nails but by betrayal
And yet, once again,
I give myself up to happenstance
to be surprised by beauty
As dawn breaks
I smell soap, not lavender