Mother drapes thousand-wash white knickers on the line, a fluttering flag signalling surrender to the acceleration of time. She struggles to recall when they were new.
Beside her, in a deckchair, father fades away having managed to dampen his temper; the sanctuary from uncertainty he craves hiding somewhere inside his third bottle.
Rubber gloves plunged deeply into washing-up; I capture them in my head through purple prose. Threaten to write it down, call it all a poem.
Put it in my pocket forever.