I am a washing machine

swish swash splash
I am a washing machine.
I don't wash my clothes very often but when I do it is quite the experience.
I throw my podunk jeans, Harley Davidson t-shirt and darn tough socks into a bucket that has earlier in the trip been a puke bucket. Then I lug them from my room down the stairs, out the door and into the bathroom. The bathroom is a room with a bunch of sinks. I turn the faucet on and fill up my bucket.
The icy glacier water turns my dry, cracked hands and arms numb and pink. I toss in a packet of "Henko" detergent when suddenly, without warning, my hands turn into the thing in the middle of the washing machine that thumps the dirt and grime out of your poly-cotton blend t-shirts.
I don't really dread this spectacle.
It is simply part of life here.
The rhythm that grabs my arms and sways my feet, is merely the rhythm of SECMOL.
I am a washing machine.