by Matthew Kenneth Kosak
He watches the red tumble into white-
The ancient man waits inside the laundry room of an ancient city.
There is a nagging doubt that creeps into his face. I can see this in how he holds his shoulders,
They are nor sharp but rounded by the ages.
He leans forward in his chair towards the maelstrom of churning water, churning panic, silent alarm,
Something lingers in the thick air above the machines. Mildewed old paint and
pulpy metallic, newsprint ink. Cheap perfumes and ‘The Clean’, that can’t, even in its permenance, return the soils of the past weighing
heavily. Do stains have gravity to them? (If they are not removed in time?)
The day of yore will not be freed in all this churning. All these circles that
must be completed, circumspect in the
wandering. Those loose hands in the plastic ring, we obey
The circle of life
The spinning confusion
The returning questions
Dirty clean dirty clean
The laundry cycle
Breath in breathe out
And watch the yellow crescent slide along the prickly slope of a pine- come parallel with the road, outside the glass door.
Something catches in his eye,
A spec of unresolved dirt lodging itself upon the orb, biting in. A whiff of cheap perfume seems to drift in a
world in itself. The door chimes, a paper rises to greet the wind like an eager pet.
The tumbling continues.
Copyright © 2012 Matthew Kenneth Kosak