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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