collected poems

v. laundry room mythology

: the smell of worn socks and detergent,
the dirt and light blue tiles--
the way everything
is clean but dirty
(always trying to be new
while fading, 
fading).

there's an old story
about what goes on
in laundry rooms between cycles
and too much soap:
the machines start to sound
like they're choking on their food;
nobody wants to be here at night.

there're other stories
about how what you leave in the pocket of your jeans
comes out soft, like fabric,
with ink bleeding out on your hands;
stories about the people who flicker around, staring,
and the flourescent light apparitions.

look. i'm only here
so i can wear something other than your t-shirt;
i don't want to know the dryer's voice, the silent screaming;
i don't want any more epiphanies
tonight.