Wash Pile (Poetry)

There is always something left —
an old skin, half-remembered —
something worn once and difficult to wash
too fragile to be put in with the rest
held back because the dye would surely run.

An odd colour — a strange ill-conceived choice
and never practical, it waits
relegated, passed over for the team
while the others dance, strung out on the line.

It is a secret self, hiding sly
not often glimpsed these days
its soiling slight but with
the shadow of a stain
too long ignored to rinse clean away.

Always at the bottom of the pile —
the washday ghost crumpled in its sin
guilty — buried weekly for its crime
uncomfortable with reminders.