Fabric softener destroys the machine,
The machine that spits out wet clothes, half clean.
The clothes that dry so quickly in summer,
Under that cancer giving sun
Hang soggy on the stretched line and grasp at the grass
That has turned a peculiar sickening brown.
Walking out on that winter day
To get away from the smell of clothes
I see a man come out of a café
With a face wrinkled so badly, that his eyes are invisible.
He looks at me as if he knows me,
I look at him, but look away.
It’s so cold, I step into a supermarket
And pick up a basket and walk the isles.
The old man with the brown folded face is there too,
He walks toward me, then steps aside at the last moment.
The bright shopping centre lights
The old hard bread; the pink deli meat makes me tired.
I walk home as the dark evening falls
And I know the clothes on the line will still be wet.