Laundromat
Through the keyhole of vacant hours
I peep into my mind.
In the rummage of sounds, words and images;
what do I find?
Thoughts crammed as if clothes in a laundry bag,
colorful, bright and dark,
and the laundry machine revolving
like a record on a phonograph.
I've heard this song
in a concert sometime.
But all I remember now
is only its first line.
My eyes transfixed in a stare.
The singer, she reminds me of someone,
especially her hair.
I try to search but cannot find;
the song always comes back haunting to my mind.
Probably the lady in the painting ...
Her umbrella blown inside out by the gust of wind,
pretty much like the memories in my mind.
There is more in the picture,
A little boy, standing away, looking at her.
Is he saying something? Is he?
What more?
I open the door
of my laundry machine.
Words gush forth --
praises, cries, plaints,
retorts, gibberish, names.
The clothes,
I fold them and put away in a set of drawers.
Some colors get brighter, some just fade.
The words,
Some are shot like arrows from the bow.
And some remain in the quiver, unsaid.
~damit~