THE LAUNDROMAT

Walking down the road this morning, I counted no less than five different shades of fushia flooding the sky. I thought, "How did I end up like this? This road, this meadow? This day? Alone after all these years, and still walking?"

Is anyone out there?


THE LAUNDROMAT

Every time you go down a road, it changes into something else.
You think you're on your way to do the laundry, and then a face

will smile at you. She's pretty. She asks for a walk.
Pretty soon you're in Mozambique or China.

The peasants are rising up and all you wanted
was some clean underwear. You feel resentful, victimized even.

You never meant to be on this road, but then
your therapist reminds you, you chose it.

Somewhere in the middle, the light grows dim. A forest
grows up around you and blocks the sun. The pretty face

is gone and you're stuck with all these peasants
who want you to feed them. Their mouths open

and caw at you like baby birds. You fly
from river to river looking for food. You want to nest,

but you're too busy. In the middle of your journey you hear
a rumble. You look down. Somewhere a washing

machine is calling. It looks vaguely familiar, you think,
like a dream you once had. But you fly right on,

mistaking the Laundromat
for someone else's life.