park slope laundry

you’re sitting by the laundromat one day in late spring
the dew is resting on a patch of grass by entrance,
not quite a washing machine
but lovely to skim toes through.
You give a grin and hand me your change
remark on our luck it has not yet rained

sorting pinks, whites and baby blues
like sorting memories wearing wooden shoes
in lavender cotton with topstitched hems
like losing lovers and finding friends

this dear, looks like it needs a little bleach
don’t forget the softener honey
It’s right there—within reach.

Lying spread out on a dryer
feeling the steady churning vibrate
deep within our bones
look
there is the door for the six floor walk up across the street
wonder if anyone’s home

look at that lovely Klimt print
in window above the pizzeria
with that postmodern lamp
I daresay it’s from Ikea.

Perhaps they have hummels in their living room,
their pantry’s stocked with gin
Saul Bellow on their shelf,
And lime-green tiles in the kitchen

maybe we could drop in
and have coffee with these lovely folks
in their quaint Brooklyn residence
on Seventh Avenue
a nice conversation with strangers
feels so long overdue

No, you say
the lights are off.
They are surely gone.
Let’s grab our laundry
And head on home.
For some coffee and bagels and the sorting of socks.