Appetite

There is a laundromat
just up the street
 
It's where neighbours and strangers often meet
 
The locals know there's one machine
that makes thier garments super clean
 
Visitors on the other hand
take pot luck;
into the slot they drop their bucks
 
The rumbling starts and away they go
But little does one of them know...
that at the end of a soapy sud rotation,
when they open up the lid,
 
shirts and jeans
and shorts and sweaters,
nickers and bras and blouses
and even scarves and trousers
will all be there...
but any socks they thought they'd brought
are gunna be well hid
 
Stacked away in the belly of a devil,
an ogre or a ghoul so very cruel--
who lives inside that one contraption--
are the things he craves and munches up with gruff gusto
 
Sporty whites; business tights;
wooley thicks; baby booties;
and fancy shmicks,
and even occasional pantyho
 
The locals feign dumb
they clear their throats,
turn their heads,
and look away
 
They know he's real
but dare not say
 
For who in this day and age
of education
could engage in such a silly conversation;
 
where one confess by faith alone
that said washing machine
could in fact
be a monster's home
 
It seems awfully childish to believe
that due to a mythical beast none have actually seen,

vanished feet apparel
can never be retrieved