I thought of the right words.
Sitting on a stool, ready
To take my laundry from out the dryer,
My vision accosted by a garish green counter, light goblin green, showing me
The nihilism of the poor.
I thought of love, come alive
On the mountaintops of my imagination.
She surrendered then, when I,
My better self, made the right moves
As though that were my fullest capacity,
My only way of being.
I think about the laundry, the dog that
I left in the backyard, the birthday
Party that I’m supposed to be at.
And I return back, to the now dry clothes, and give thanks to my privacy
For I wish to be here and to not be seen
Unless I were fresh like the laundry