Washboard

Every day, life
Roughs me up a little more.
Abrasive people, abrasive rules,
Abrasive circumstances
Crowd me, rub me the wrong way,
Conspire to scrub holes in my
Resolve. Like old lye soap
It brings tears to my eyes;
The burning is intense
But I feel no cleaner from
The agitation.

Whose hands are responsible
For this friction in my life?
Is it God? My friends?
My family? My enemies?
Or is it my own doing,
Compulsively scrubbing at stains
Others may never even see?

Perhaps the key to
Cleaning up my act is simple:
Perhaps I should just learn to
Sit and soak for a while
Before plunging headfirst
Into the daily wash cycle.