dirty clothes, broken mind

got to the
before the drugs
had a chance
to kick in
a static filled
cloud of sparks
angrily scowling
as i hauled in
my dirty load
masked faces
stare at the
disheveled wreck
in a titticaca shirt
unprepared for
an excursion out
side of his prison
my mind spins
the same as the
boxer briefs and
colorful shirts

i ran out of socks
pants, underwear and
work shirts but
manage to have
a half a row
of shirts with authors
or book references
hanging mockingly
in defiance to
the half dressed
would be poet
scrambling through
a fog of two nights
left sleepless as his
anxieties tried to
convince him that he
could go another week
without clothes to
wear rather than
join the public
and that voice is
convincing even as
i had planned this trip
days in advance
i still questioned
just buying new clothes
instead of leaving
the safety of my cave

probably would have too
if i could afford it
instead i watch people
from the parking lot
a timer set to match
the one on the machine
as the line to the
tapatia bakery stretches
around the block and
my guts roil angrily
wanting two of those
spinach pastries and a
cup of coffee as the
gray skies turn yellow
over the laundromat and
a fool tapping frantic
trying not to explode
from all the pent up
nervousness and depression
as the soap bubbles
remove any trace that
i was ever here to begin with

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