She says it
like I'm meant to hear it
She writes it
like I'm meant to read it
She makes it solid
like I'm meant to touch it
but its too late
cause she is at the side of the road
with a sign that says notice me, that I drove past a while back.
I'm letting you go sweetheart.
I'm letting you go is all I say and
****
I let her go

LAUNDROMAT SONGS**

"How long shall they **** our prophets as we stand aside and look?”    
             ‑‑ Bob Marley

Saturday morning,
the scene's the same
round and round
suds and foam,
round and round
energetic flashes of life
play, giggle and roam.
"Can I have a quarter
to play video games?
Hey mom, can I get a
soda and some chips?"
~~~~~
It's always bedlam,
even at 3 am,
always the same
neighborhood faces
some smiling, others
wrinkled like
clothes with a stain problem.
Clothes and lives
sharing destinies.
***** clothes, old and worn,
*****, hard driven lives.
Both, beat and torn,
both trying to get clean
fresh from this
bone weariness
reflected like patched knees,
lost buttons,
mismatched  sox
or  those brown  streaked ******,  
reflecting our brown stained lives.
~~~~~
Round and round go the clothes.
Round and round so goes our lives
that no matter what we do
seems always in need of mending.
Round and round
women, kids
and clothes in tow.
Men, if  there,
in the background,
begrudgingly,
but always  fighting for control.
~~~~~
Sometimes though the  juke wails
joyful music prevails
causing feet to tap
and lips to smile.
Maybe some Miles
or hip hop Coup
announce a new rinse cycle.
Some young'un dropped the  coin
but you can see
all are keeping time
with  these way out songs.
Finally,  eyes  reveal hidden,
no more suppressed,
revelry,
clothes  are folded musically.
The kid knows his tunes,
out jumps a "classic";
"Redemption Songs".
Marley at his best
conscious style, a request.
"Won't you help me  sing
these  songs of freedom.
Redemption songs.
They're all I ever had
redemption songs."
~~~~~
You can see it in
lint filled air swirling,
eyes  gleaming,
kids screaming;
you can taste the hope
and dreams.
A  joyous hunger
of patched  jeans,
men and women sway
in unison. For 3 minutes, 25 seconds,
on this very early morn,
the possibilities of relations
rinsed  clean
of men and women
folding clothes
smelling fresh,
wishing for a better way.
~~~~~
It is only a glimpse
this Saturday morning.
A round and round
scene
that holds promise
as old, worn clothes
wash,
spin,
dry
and leave refreshed,
clean.
On this morn
a few eyes, alert
wishful,
leave singing;
"Redemption songs,
they're  all  I ever  had,
these  songs  of  freedom."

~~redzone 5.22.99~~
(posted by Aztec Warrior writing as redzone)

I almost cried about you today.
I saw hands intertwined and thought about our almost-forever
And isn’t that a sick thought: almost
I thought of reds so bright and warm they hurt to look at
so hot to the touch it burned my memories
I thought of stopping by your house to say hello
and remembered you weren’t even there. Not anymore.
I thought of how great we were together
the perfect pair of outcasts, the Quiet One and the Loud Mouth
I thought of our nights side by side
the way my lips would brush against your neck when everyone else was asleep
and maybe I might have missed it.
I thought of the restaurants with their mixed matched silverware
and how a full year later I realized I’d stopped taking stock of restaurants
becuase I stopped expecting to bring you to them I thought “don’t cry. don’t you ******* cry.”
because it’s been two and a half years of apathy
I don’t get to cry now
No matter how much I miss you.