2/7/2016 1 Comment 3 poems by PW CovingtonLaundromat Blues By PW Covington Friday night 7 or so Washing T-shirts and boxer-briefs Coin operated Clink, Clink, Clink Fat, young, mothers So Beat and beautiful they don’t even know it So blessed, so magic Universal They tell their only babies To “Leave the man alone” As they scoot on the floor Before The Dr. Pepper machine I am the only man in this place And so, I must be danger I must be Lethal I must be washing the cat pee from my yellowing white under-shirts Then, Into the dryer Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh I’m sorry, young mothers For defiling this cleaning place This sacred space with my dirty laundry with my searching smile So, I cross the street For some Thunderbird wine And bide my time Outside behind The Laundromat Glug, Glug, Glug Removing stains is never easy I thought I saw Herbert Huncke’s reflection Behind the big, silver, clothes dryer In sheet metal sheen But, it was only me And angelic Beat toddlers And coin operated redemption And Thunderbird wine Value Menu Sometimes, I get too big for the world My problems Worries Fears Grow so large That I must go out Down the street To the fast food shop I will choose an item or two Of some value menu, fried food Just before noon When the line is full With hurried diners On lunch breaks From jobs they hate “2 dollars and 98 cents, please” The counter clerk will say And I will riffle in my pocket To produce quarters, dimes, and nickels, Down to the last three pennies Exact change is the only way this will work It takes a while So, I begin sharing All about the troubles of my day The fears I can exorcize no other way Padding the tale with back-story I mention peoples’ names that no one here knows The “I do not give a fuck” look on the worker’s face Is a god-send, as I lay coins on the counter Line-standers behind me exhaling and shuffling feet Impatiently, unwillingly, receiving my confession Then, instantly, tossing it into the rubbage bins behind them Perspective attained for less than three dollars Less than 400 calories, if I order right Less than two minutes…too long, really, for my fears and minor miseries The fast food workers let me know The line behind me, lets me know And as I lay the last few coins on the counter I smile at the refreshment That comes from no longer Carrying All that Loose change Around I walk away with a paper sack, full of reconciliation My sacrament complete For the Birds I hold no deep Affinity For the small, brown, birds That gather At my red feeder, Hanging by a wire From my front yard pecan But, I spend a portion Of my Air Force pension Every week At the market To buy packaged seed I would miss them, I suppose If I could not hear Their peeps and trills From my sunny, winter, morning Coffee porch About the author: PW Covington's work is inspired by the Beat tradition of the American highway. His short fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and his poetry has been published by academic journals and underground 'zines. Covington has been invited to read across the Western US, including by the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival and at The Beat Museum in San Francisco. Covington's latest collection of poetry "Sacred Wounds" is published by Slough Press. www.PWCovington.com
1 Comment
Susan Summers
2/8/2016 10:10:38 am
Great work here by Covington, especially "Value Menu," a unique poetic perspective. I continue to be impressed by Anti-Heroin Chic.
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