Laundromat Poem I
The laundromat is filling up.
The port holes fill up slow.
We deepen past the multi-colored reef
of our clothes. Underclothes.
It is my birthday,
and on the TV Larry King sells supplements for the prostate.
In a hospice somewhere today someone has died,
their warmth slips skyward then quickly hellways
for dying with Larry King’s weird lie in their heart:
My fastball has been harder than ever. And for 17.99…
Under the blankets, there are sheets, a set of adult diapers.
Don’t believe the portholes. The sea cannot be warm,
turning blankets because I have seen it.
It is cold, salt. It is fat. It is churning over
the question. It smiles like a dog,
laps the feet of the shore. Its breath is briny, ancient.
We will see it – the whole sea – when we ourselves
lurch skywards, then pause suspended like some space thing,
waiting as God looks for the lie. When our souls plummet from that great height
we will only ruffle the sea slightly. We will only fall back gently, slowly.
Like Larry King’s small body falls naked and backwards into a laundered bed set,
we will pass through the cloth and only ever be passing.