He dreamed a dream of a scene in his
laundry room basement. Wrapped in
lonely sheets and sorting out socks
and towels that nobody shared.
Blood stained and shrouded in
mystery like kneeling at his alter
like a choir boy groping for
mercy from his father.
Trampled and buried in silk shirts
that came out of his netted cursed
hamper. The coins jingled in his
pocket waiting to be dropped in
outer darkness while stains and
wrinkles abound in fiber piles
of soiled laundry.
Your eyes caught his as well as
your silky panties wrapped somehow
in his boxer shorts, how did they collide?
No soap suds could have moved them
that close without so blindly swooning
or being unloosed with love in the last
rinse or downpour.
Why he wondered does a laundry room
with machines gather and hang out among
such soiled garments before being wrung
and gnarled together like huggers on
a park bench.
This bachelor knows that every time
he ventures to the basement, his
mind-set gropes blindly into his
treasures lying deep within his hamper
hoping nobody sees the dirt he carries
within his soul and tries his best to
remove all those jagged stains that
wear him thin.
A meeting place for hopeful tenants
walking their invisible pet, carrying
their dirty laundry with greater
expectations of possibly meeting
the affections without pretense.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2013. All Rights Reserved.