help me wash my laundry
in the little machines
that are kept downstairs.
I haul my bag of whites & darks
& towels & sheets & they each hold
a corner, tossing in the fabric
softener, handing me my satin
pouch of dirty coins. When I’m lonely,
light-blue ghosts help fold
my scattered socks, and smooth
the creases on my ragged
jeans. In the basement
of The Arcade, and on
its granite colonnade, the sun makes
waves & rays on backs
of those alive & dead alike. Then
down on all our heads, the summer
comes to touch our tangled hair
with shadows: girls with wings
in black hoop-skirts, and from
the rafters of the crowded
years, strings of spiderwebs.
