3 poems by PW Covington

Laundromat 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