The African
American
Guy sitting on
A bench in the
Laundromat gives
You the eye, the
Kind of I’ve been
Around awhile
Stare, not a bit
Unfriendly, but
Maybe bemused,
Wondering why
A white dame would
Want to look at
Him for and him
Alone in this
His kingdom of
Machines twirling,
Cleaning while they
Toss water and
Foam. Better than
Watching TV,
He drawls, all got
The same channel,
But different
Cycles, diverse
Clothes, all kinds of
Dirt and dullness
And sins to wash
Away. You were
Never good at
Small talk, but you
Try to say a
Few words and smile,
Putting yourself
At ease. Can’t wash
Your soul here though,
He says, showing
A bright gleam of
White teeth, just sit
Still and stare
And contemplate.
You unpack your
Bag of wash and
Sense his eyes fixed
On you, his mind
Ticking over,
As you place in
The clothes large and
Small. An old white
Guy comes in here
Everyday,
He says all of
A sudden, brings
His wash, sits and
Stares, mumbles to
The machine, while
Watching the same
Few items of
Clothing go round
And round. You nod
Your head and take
In his tee shirt,
Shorts and woollen
Hat, his socks and
Shoes and wonder
What your mother
Would have made of
Him had she been
Here. This place’s
A kind of dull
Purgatory,
Where souls wait for
Their time to come
To go to Hell
Or Paradise.
He laughs, moves his
Legs back and forth,
Pushes his hat
Further back on
His head. Maybe
We’re already
In Paradise,
Maybe this is
It. You and I,
Both sitting and
Staring at these
Washing machines,
But really in
Essence, we’re dead.
You turn your back
To watch your wash,
See the whites twirl
Like fond lovers
In the water
And sickly foam.
When you look back
Again he’s gone.
Maybe to Hell
Or Paradise
Or just back home.