Laundry Matt Blues

It's my last day here in Baltimore. The packing is nearly done. It's five am, and I can't sleep. Dan is snoring. I haven't slept normal in weeks; I'm sure I've said that before. Everything feels in a daze.

I've barely gotten used to this place, and soon enough I'll forget the address and it will forget us--the love we've left sandwiched between these walls. New memories will soon seep themselves into the drywall and we'll be nothing but the guts of a dead fly squished against the white wash.

This place--how can I give you a feeling for it?

We didn't unpack a lot of things. My suitcases looked like they vomited labels and last years articles. The furniture is all used, mostly compressed paper board made into artificial wood. I didn't mind it though. It was modest and something else--a resting place. We both knew it was temporary, still leaving feels strange.

Cardboard boxes litter the floor with packing paper. The bookshelf is bare. Things are neatly stacked. The floor is freshly vacuumed. The blinds are closed, and our leave is seeping out.

Sundays are laundry day. We put on the remainder of items that don't match. Neither of us like to get dressed on Sundays. We eat out, snuggle on the couch, play video games and make out. Make bloody marys.

We pack the fold our laundry bags overflowing. A well-used IKEA bag services our detergents and drier sheets, a few books to read and my Ipod. We sit on a yellow wire bench together, sweating a bit.

This place depresses me. The florescent lighting is dulling against the drab blue tile, tinting the room like a moldy berry. It's reminiscent the dirty hospital that nursed me in Queens from a kidney infection.

Laundry Matt Blues

Sing, sing the rhythm of

the Speed Queen washin'

machine. In goes the dollars,

round goes the water, rushin'

circles of bubble soap, dirty clothes--

nothin' but weekly chores. Kids

kickin' snack machine, soda pop

and crunchy dues. Terror of

the laundry matt these wanna-be

hoodlums--ain't got much to do

on their low rides, seats all the way

up. Dented machine hissin' softly,

givin' way nothin', not seen a coin

for weeks--expiration dates

tellin' a story this neighborhood

laundry matt knows without being spoke.