a long laundromat hour, an old fade, a familiar slide of time;
soap in boxes, machines of it; a
sign begs, "Keep this place clean."
outside, the bars are so wetly lit
in their silent huddled storefronts;
buses pass by in the rain with
their peculiar leviathan sound noising the night.
electricity hums along wires
strung above the street, fine web of wire.
i wait to be inhabited. smoothing laundry,
feeding the tumbling with coins,
buses swim along the street, sighing those metal sighs.
there isn't a thing i do today
that does not have your name written, sounded into it;
sounds like something maybe looking for air,
breaching above the wetness,
maybe calling a name out into that dark, folding sky.
I let out a sigh, or wait a name;
how many washes more to wash you away