mmcmli

Words follow heartbeats, arrogant and slow...
                                       —Jack Spicer

On this gorgeously dim-lit first
day of a decade, I find myself at
a laundromat on an old and tiny

couch with a tartan cover (cover

ing what, I do not know) and what
appear to be kitchen dish-drying

towels upon each armrest.  My left
arm rests on one as I scribble this,
for some perspective, or to find a

resolution, perhaps. I wonder what
I have ever resolved.  The one load
I can afford whirls peacefully and

mesmerically around in the $4.45
washer.  I watch it roll, more
sucked in than teevee until I

am hypnotized.  Or else I’m
asleep, dreaming of restless
wet clothes, anxiously awaiting

the glorious release of moisture
from each item’s dizzy trip to
cleanliess.  It is not so good when

so exhausted to doze restlessly.  Or
anxiously, I would say.  “Please wake
me up when the wash cycle ends,” I

deign to demand of my dream.  The
dream wakes up to transfer the laundry
from washer to dryer, inserts the

required $1.25.  To never leave this
ancient couch with its tartan cover
and dishtowel epaulets is my New

Year’s resolution.  Next year I’ll take
my clean items out of the dryer, which
has become an even bigger television.

In my dream-state I wonder what this
coming year is asking of me.  Has it
asked that my resolution be another

year of complacency. “Complacency!?”
I exclaim to the year, “Like the year
before? Like perhaps each year of the

last entire decade?”  Awakened by my
screams, I make my way off the couch,
stand for a moment at the machines, a bit

wobbly, and mutter back, “Well, we’ll just
see about that!” I’m careful not to watch

the clothes dry, lest I be drawn into the

new machine’s dark arts, hypnotized by
the vortex of colorful swirl.  Later, I
find myself back in my cozy apartment.

The confusion has blown over except for
a bit of vague trepidation.  I am unpacking
my two tow-bags full of my clothes and my

linens.  And (towel to nose) they smell so 

clean!   I’ve lived here for nearly a year, 

but have yet to awaken with the memory 

of even the tiniest parcel of a dream. 

Unlike any place at which I have
resided, I don’t spend any portion of

the morning racking my brain to try
to remember the teensiest tidbit of
where I may have been while asleep.

Which has given me an ongoing 

sense of being a guest sleeping 

in a stranger’s room.  Switching 

gears, I begin my nightly “prayer” — 

I bow my head upon my semi-

strange bed and speak the 

address of each place I have 

resided since childhood.  I think 

momentarily of the bed upon 

which, at each, I slept, and with
whom I slept.  This takes consider
able memory and time, and comforts

and even pleases me as I proudly place
my newly clean possessions into their 

proper drawer in this, my newest home.