My Beautiful Launderetta
I ogle you in the dryer's fisheye lens
as your purple bra, slip, panties rotate:
your unders cycling starkers before me.
My palate's parched; I suck on a water.
Not an extra pound of fat on your bones
(although the dryer's lens could deceive).
I think, "Beautiful Launderetta, please be
with me tonight! How we'll fit snug together
in all our parts!" But minutes run down,
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we have our laundry to retrieve and fold,
and lovingly pack away. Regrettably, I know
we've got different places to rest tonight.
Christopher T. George
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