laundered dreams

my mind is quite
persuasive in the
persnickety nature
of my bipolarity
and even though i
needed to do so much
my legs were disabled
at the doorway as
the voices whispered
to come back to the
couch and never go
anywhere at all until
the last possible
moment and so now
i find myself in my
last pair of clean
work clothes and the
highlighter colored
final pair of boxers
waiting for the lady
to open the laundromat
as my stomach is filled
with angry porcupines
and the week is already
proving why i never
manage to get out the
door to go anywhere

the sun is still
hiding her pretty smile
behind the shadowy
skyline of sleepy dallas
the early crew is out
grabbing coffee and gas
preparing for the day
in a tired parade of
muttered thanks for
gas station burritos
as i grab the last
twenty from the bank
to pay for this predawn
adventure in clean clothes
daydreaming of my own
machine to keep me from
having to go out among
the haggard faces who
were awoken by alarms
to fulfill the dreams
of someone else all week
scrambling to get back
home to throw it in the
dryer so i can join
the restless throngs
making pennies while
the owner collects
all of the rest while
complaining about how
no one wants to work
as the price of everything
but a liveable wage does
nothing but increase

my father and i would
do laundry every sunday
with a deck of cards
to wile away the time
and i cannot bring myself
to ever leave the couch
because anxiety is a
relentless mistress and
she never takes a day off
from needling me about
spending the money i
don’t have on little things
like survival and hygiene
as rent looms closer
and my head pounds in
rhythm to my stomach’s
everlasting pangs and
i wish for one more day
of playing hearts as the
filth of the week is
casually scrubbed away
by the rows of machines
eating quarters as the
bubbles swish as he sneaks
a beer in a coffee mug
while we wait for the sun
to break morning once more


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