The Rose Laundromat

There was no rain but there were faint sounds of a bird splashing in water falling off of the side of the Rose Laundry Mat. The smoke of a nine A.M. cigarette kissed the calluses of an old man’s hand as we waited for his clothing to dry.

July

Splashing,

we’re  in wet.

It’s not raining at the

Laundromat.

Nine AM smoke

kissing the calluses

of an old man’s

fingers.

The crow’s feet

are in

water

 trickling.

Soft. Pink. Stucco.