Strange to find myself washing clothes in a 17th century tub
In the laundry room of Borromini's last creation.
To dip my hands in the icy water and watch my shirts
Playing with the soap like glistening eels.
They come into the air to drip on the time-rubbed stone
And foreign pipes, already rusting over.

Funny how my soul feels so free and clean here,
Whistling a tune to the warbling sun
And silver light moving the walls slow like water.
Nothing moves or sounds outside except the church bells
Calling from what seems every direction, every street.

First, to drop the socks into the washing side of the tub
And scrape the bar soap in their soles.
Next to bathe off soap and sweat
In the clear water of the rinsing side.
Then to pull my socks out like shimmering ghosts,
Nursing the water out of them to dry.

My clothes are part of me - and tell the story.
They stretch and stiffen on the line when all is done.
Now, cold-nosed and red-handed, I will walk to church.