Cycles at the Laundromat

A van with tire-spinners turns into the parking lot
of the laundromat. I'm certain that before I had
tire-spinners, I'd have my own laundry room.

I leave my soap and empty quarter-can
in the trust of the other patrons and go outside
to practice walking like a real human being.

This tree has leaves that look like siamese twins
who've finally had it and have started
a deadly game of tug of war.

Walk across an empty parking lot on a Sunday
afternoon and any town fills up with the ghosts
of unsanctioned coming-of-age rituals.

The woman across the street walks toward the place
I'll be if I cross here. Was I going to cross here? I'll cross
here then act lost and cross back. She's gone.

There's a blue sports car surrounded with children and one
young woman pulling on a shirt that doesn't fit right.
She's yelling at the children. They all get in. No one's driving.

Now the laundromat is filling up again with the usual
lot of magazine ad readings, prideless fantasies, bleach,
and me coming back full of oxygen and yellow exhaust.