After

written summer 2005

After

With nowhere to stop, I drove to the Laundromat.
A succession of molded orange chairs
opposed a row of avocado washers, their
mouths like Communicants, thrust wide
for quarters. A boy in rubber clogs brushed
his mother’s long, red hair. I perched
with my knees tucked into my armpits
atop the washer nearest the plate-glass window
and watched the reflection of the bristles
dividing the strands while her hands paired clean socks.
Hair has no lungs and neither does flame.