Connie the Wiggler
wasn’t a singer
or even a star of the stage
but covered with soap
she gave clients hope
their clothing would be quite the rage.
A laundress by trade,
but it silk or brocade,
her work was beyond repute
and there wasn’t a man
white, brown or tan,
who did not owe her salute.
She was well known
all over Nome —
if you prized your outer wear —
she’d cleanse your pants clean
from seam to seam
and repair it if there was a tear.
For women’s bustles
she repaired ever rustle
and replaced every crack in whale bone
so you always sat pretty
or barstool or privy,
plank benches or campfire stones.
Be they blood stains
or been dripping remains
Connie could wash color away
and return your vestments
without wrinkles or rents
in less than a handful of days.
There was always room
in the Bonfire Saloon
for everyone wished Connie the best
and she never searched
for a chair or a perch
for all the men wanted clean vests.
That being said,
Connie would see red
and refuse to wash certain shirts:
those with wrinkles in sleeves
for cards to receive
to appear in a manner expert
when a spreading of royals
would not be spoiled
by the quick insert of a King
or a handload of trash
could be converted to cash
by a deft flick of a finger ring.
Connie was clean
as Evangeline
even though she had wash board hands
but somewhere she knew
was a suitor in blue,
a patiently waiting man
who would sweep her away
some bright sunny day
and wash the Nome memories away
and that dream she would keep
with her elbows sunk deep
in the suds of her laundering ways.