Rotary Clothesline

I’m anchoring a windmill
tilted at right angles,
I’m pegging sheets and clothing,
fighting weighty tangles
and futile bids for freedom –
moored, they flap and slap
together, held enslaved.
Haughty words can’t sap
my strength while I’m in charge;
egos wear a gag.
I’m hanging out my laundry,
raising my own flag.
Agendas won’t take over,
swallow, or enclose mine,
I’m in control, empowered,
standing at my clothesline.