Even My Hands Are Restless

even my hands are restless
laden with stiff laundry
taken from the clothesline
here in a small town
it can't be
that in your life not even you will ever
pull open the gate, enter a green yard, go to the orchard
where clean white laundry billows against a breeze
wholesome, fragrant
and where I would come to meet you
slow and quiet
as the last day of summer