Man.

You.

I want your pizza.

You can tell she's a designer by her
fine-tuned dishevelment, the

unwashed bob, the unkempt wool sweater &
the neon green belt under it all. We're trying
on costumes and making adjustments with
safety pins and measuring tape.

Actors in and out, hands everywhere, lots
of slow looking and tiny movements that
change everything.

Morning still hangs
in the air like a slowly falling arc, it's
eleven o' clock. Smiles from
Artist to artist. Little moments.

The sting of caffeine still surrounds my
upper chest, sending shots of pain and exhilaration
to my brain. Morning light graciously floods
the windows and spills onto work tables and
gem-green linoleum.

Back and forth,
          back and forth.

Don't you see it?
that change in my overall countenance?
the way the sun hits my face perfectly now?
it's so obvious to me.
I don't understand why
you passing me doesn't incite
a second look
from you.

My laundry tumbles away
and tonight I've chosen to stay
In the building's basement lounge
And maybe scrounge
Eighty-five cents for a candy bar

The sugar keeps me alert,
Though tomorrow's going to hurt.
          It's five AM oh-one.
                        And I don't want that sun,

My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.

Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.

Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.

I can only imagine that Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of ancient laundering.

As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.

My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.

Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.

Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.

I can only imagine if Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of laundering.
As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.

Your soft green shirt must
mean that your soul is kind
and your spirit must be wise, and

clearly your heathered socks are
telling me that you are of independent mind,
you're a lone wanderer, a barbarian.

Your red tee is intriguing me, it
means you have an appetite
for adventure, or perhaps it
means that you have an affinity for classical jazz.

I can't remember, but if I
lean in closer, I can hear your clothes clearer.

The clothes tell it best.