Whites

They hang like skinned angels
The shirts and the trousers
She pegs them out every Thursday
Takes them in while they are still damp
For ironing
Love is measured in cupfulls of powder
Love is 90 degrees
It's the hard yellow stone of soap
On the grass stain
On the red groin of the fast bowler
Pride is whiteness
The heat of the iron set for cotton.
Pride is the crisp crease of the trouser,
The neat turnup,
The shirt folded like newness.