behind the laundromat

i come in the morning
again here to the place where
laundry unclaimed gathers
sticky residue already fabric
softened or other, evaporated
detergent skinless on the fake
linoleum counter not liquid not
matter, stuck

midway between the two, old
pair of gym shorts dust bunnied
in the crease, single sock grey
where the pink woulda been
when matched and snug and
certain upon the baby foot, old
slip, beige, too large for breast
or stomach both also most likely
now too large too to fit, elsewhere

they make pizza dough in
through the steamy opening
shout at each other in mexican
which believe me in this part of fla
is different from other types of
espanol, the shorter guy nods at me
then shouts again at his counterpart
there, there,
put the formless clump moist


who you are to me is endless
monotony churning losing shouting
outgrown or never having fit at
all but returning, again again
and again to the place where

last we checked there was nurturing
clothes maybe old but comfortable
warmed for the tired muscled
body food already waiting
to be eaten again, thoughtless but
full and ready to
be let go worn
aimless other than
the steps of the return

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