Clean/Dirty

This job is taking it out of me, I tell ya. Nevertheless, I managed to address both Writer's Digest prompts on this "twofer Tuesday." We had "clean" and "dirty." Like yesterday's prompt, these seemed fraught with obvious symbolism, which I tried to dodge, albeit not completely.

These are not a pair.


Surfside Launderette

The Reverend Carlton G. Booze folds my panties
as they come fresh and hot from the Speed Queen.
I guess he lost his church. His is the afternoon shift,
between the narrowfaced scold who watches judge shows
and the five-hundred-pound man. He wears a small cross
on his plaid flannel. I guess he’s touched a better hem
than mine. I try to get there late enough to miss him
so we don’t join eyes as he handles my garments.
The last time, I caught the tag end of a chat
with some wind-reddened sailor: “Yeah, I remember
a time when Booze was my last name, too.”

The Reverend granted
an indulgent smile, passed me the basket:
six days of sweat, cat hair, tomatoes
gone wherever the unwanted things go.



Poetry in the Analog Age

It’s going to be a mess:
you will grow, on your
right middle finger, a mound,
or sometimes a dent,
fierce red or white as bone.
These stains leach from the words
that you press into your fingers.
Along the lateral edge
of the index: a blue streak.
Your palm will catch a painless bruise,
gray-black.

To change your mind requires
tight spikes, like those found
in the record of an anxious heart,
beat out over your cursive. Or,
if you didn’t trust ink to begin with,
a filthy snowfall of pink motes
will cover you waist to knees.

You should have kept things as they were:
immaculate, digital. Instead you
chose to follow the masters,
you grubby romantic.