laundry day

a six month idea; no poem has ever taken me as long to complete

i hope this letter finds you as decently as i’ve been,

as indifference is a chore,

like my laundry spilling over,

spinning seconds,

tumbling on and on like hours were the birds and movement shuttered,

tripped and trembled at the loss of control;

but god my head just won’t stop begging,

banging for attention,

ringing and rolling every penny into peace,

new and nonuniquely qualified in unitedness,

striping stepping stones across my ironed mess,

and betting on the breeze;

-

blowing past the piles,

to be seen but never plastered,

wasting all my pieces

and poisoning their power,

posted, pinned and pictured,

scraps unmade, nondestroyed,

redevoured,

by eyes scouting sacrifice

and nothing beautiful, weaving

thin air to meaning misted,

teething twisted and tongues overblown,

to soapbox ceilings, mounted, mystic monotone,

to something so clean i can read its history in the reflection,

fold my skin over the questions and whistle my way home;

-

but now my baggage is piloting the floor tile,

my suitcase spilling dirty clothes,

coatings redirecting

flash flooded cheekbones

and sprinkler showers, blush blooming,

rain dances, first to nine lives,

three left feet cramming sneakers divided, untied,

and refocused stares, like camera lenses clipping,

scrubbing past the grime, surveillance spies and painting by numbers,

thunderstorms and dry cleaners leading the blind;

-

but i’ve traveled new places and vocabularies too,

turned my veins blue and my bones supersized,

and still my skin fell to the grass, gasped to feel the morning dew,

showed its colors to the sun and wished the petrichor away,

and differentiated for a profound spark

from my face, a vessel levitated, separated, split apart,

from garments and heaven, anything to set the mark,

wash the dirt, soak the sentences, rinse the lines to start;

-

as indifference is a chore and i’m pale as the boxes on my chart,

the magnets on my fridge,

the cobwebs on my car,

or the keys in my pocket, fraying my cargo seams,

to eraser shavings spelling maps i once crafted subconsciously and

anything more relatable than flying fast from love,

to and all of the above the movement tumbling like the wash,

or a somersault to vault me millions of memories away,

to songs synched inside wallpapers ankle high,

what once caught my eyes as flashy skyscraper displays,

captivating me what seemed to be a final time at every age,

unknowing to paralysis, this ironic desire to stay,

held captive in my agitation, as if the minutes count the same,

inside the timer built to accent puddles splashing bullet trains,

to sneaker squeaks and sighs, and i’ll carry mine to the grave,

on my back in the mesh bag where i’ve compiled everything,

spiraling to find a reason,

every evening,

laundry day.

acd