Pharaoh’s autumn laundry

A leaf-curl sneer
As if autumn fish-hooked petulance
From the wet corner of your mouth

Almost lemons 
The laundry scent
Not quite a Sunday seaside
Still muggy with
The thick damp cloth
Of March wrung out
Until your paled hands
Annoyedly dripping
Slip on the too-tight, criss-cross tap
Overcast and
Creased as deserts

Speaking sideways
The cement sarcophagus deep
Strands of hair and muck
As grim as pharaoh’s echoing
Coriolis voice

Rictus lips and
In the darkly narrow drain, a glint