My clothes are done.
But I put another dime in the machine
just to watch the Speed Queen take them for a roll.
And when have they ever looked this good on me?
An old babushka looks at me askance.
I leer at her as if I were the Speed Queen
inviting her to a tumble. She looks away
and I am lost in my clothes again—
these imposters—they are absolutely wild.
My shirt is rolling as if it were strutting
in a Casamance tam-tam. And my Jockey shorts—
I didn’t think they had it in them—this playfulness.
And at rest—how sad my clothes look.
These colors need to spin, flee the center,
have the bottom fall out,
be one with the top.
I am alone now, with Mary, who supervises this gallery.
She asks if I am the gentleman who left his book on the chair.
There are thieves, she says,
and tells me that the wind will be a gale—
just witness the multicolored leaves all over the floor.
Steal a book?
With all this art
for a dime?
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
