To the Laundromat

by Steven McDougal

SUNDAY afternoon whether rain or shine,
whether the moon be waning or waxing,
I will go to a place ever taxing
to wash my clothes with humanity's brine

Verily, before me a laundry cart
in which children race to a tear-stained end.
See evangelicals hotly contend
for souls with a traveling salesman's art.

A man with bad feet tells me of disease.
Another rants politics in my ear.
Two lovers argue in a corner near
A TV beside drying BVDs.

Drier sheets and popcorn litter the floor
Thus my Sunday afternoon, evermore.

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