FROM THE LAUNDROMAT GIRL
THE LAUNDROMAT GIRL
It’s a lonely life
as a Laundromat girl
Nothin’ to do
but watch clothes spin
in the Dexter Stack Cycle
and kids drowning
on the channel five news
counting down the hours
10 ‘til the doors close
11 when the cycles stop
I’m sitting
reading the Dhammapada
asking what Buddha would do
keeping an eye on my tighty-whities
Relax Lee
free yourself of attachment
a homeless guy
isn’t interested in
wearing your underwear
and I’m hoping
the cute girl across the way
spies me reading some Buddhist text
and she’ll think I’m a thinking man
and we’ll strike up conversation
and fuck back at my place
God I’m awful at this Buddhist thing
But she leaves
and it’s just me and the Laundromat girl
and the Bears losing
on TV
She’s short
stocky
Hispanic
black thick-rimmed
glasses
that “lonely librarian” look
as Jeremy and I
call it
and I imagine
I take her
into the backroom
behind the jumbo driers
and make love to her
and for that short period of time
she’s not a Laundromat girl
and I’m not in retail
and I’d say
some cheesy line
like
“You’re the fabric of my life”
or
“I think my laundry’s done”
and I’d load up my things
and walk off
at 11 on the dot
when the cycles stop
SUNDAY SERVICE
I’m watching
TV
wondering why
there are no
shows w/ Buddha
or Allah or whatever
just shows about
Jesus like that one
w/ the nun w/
the eye patch or
Pat Robertson and
they are filming
a service
and the woman
at the pulpit says
we are all one
in Jesus Christ
and it’s a few
minutes past
noon
Sunday
which means
right now
while people are
praying in church
Jesus is watching television
searching for Buddha
POETS ALWAYS FAIL
It’s Monday
cold and rainy
I’ve just gotten off of work
and head to the Walgreen’s on Clinton
thinking of lines
that are too profound
bullshit like the sun
and piercing blue eyes
and poets always fail
when they try to write about things
that are too profound
and I walk into the Walgreen’s on Clinton
to get some Draino
and three roles of toilet paper
and while I’m there I decide what the hell
and get some parmesan
and Ramen and garlic salt
while thinking of lines
that are too profound
bullshit like the sun
and piercing blue eyes
and poets always fail
when they try to write about things
that are too profound
I head to the register
and toss my Draino
three roles of toilet paper
parmesan Ramen and garlic salt down
in front of Angie
the Chicana service clerk with highlights
and she’s beautiful
the way 22-year-old women are beautiful
when they pretend to be pissed off at the world
and I know she’s only pretending
because she never looks up
and her voice is so gentle
too gentle for the weight of the world
she reaches her arm out
to hand me the change
a delicate Catholic arm
with a fine peach fuzz
and poets always fail
when they try to write about things
that are too profound
and I walk out
of the Walgreen’s
and it’s cold and rainy
the bullshit like the sun
and the piercing blue eyes
is gone
just some poor shlub
with his groceries
singing “Angie”
in the rain
IT'S HARD TO WRITE A POLITICAL POEM
The news at noon comes on
1 dead in Macombe
2 new dead in Waukesha
It’s hard to write a political poem
then it’s weatherman Tom
it’s raining hard in Oklahoma City
and it’s 45 in Chicago
It’s hard to write a political poem
and the winning lotto numbers are…
up next Cybil Shepard…
look at how clean my whites are…
It’s hard
but so are the faces of the dead
in their military photos
and as Walgreen’s tells me about savings
and the Quaker Oats man tells me about Liberty Insurance
I picture the hard face of a 19-year-old kid
softening
as he lay
dying
under the sweltering sun
and dry heat of Fallujah
and it’s raining hard in Oklahoma City
while his family waits
and it’s 45 in Chicago
while his family waits
and it’s 12:57
and they’re talking about the weather
while I wait
typing a poem about the news
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