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,
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