My grandmama called them small clothes,
And when we’d hang them out to dry,
She’d caution, Fold them over, girl,
So the neighbors cannot spy.
Spy what? I’d ask in puzzlement.
You know, she’d tell me with a sigh.
So I’d always fold them over
In time, forgot to wonder why.
I still find I call them small clothes
I ruefully cannot deny.
Though they dry in a machine now,
And never even see the sky.
They rest within my chest of drawers
All folded as in days gone by
Tucked in neatly, doubled over
Just so the neighbors cannot spy.
Judith A. Witaker