Two selections from Every Laundromat In The World by Mel Bosworth.
The factory workers park their cars
close to the walls of the factory.
It keeps the frost off their windshields.
It’s the presence of the thing, the heat.
That’s what the third shift workers say.
The man is crunching carrots. He’s watching the sun
tear a slow blue just above the mountain.
He’s watching a child make wicked toys
using only household items.
The woman orders a coffee, sits alone. Three men smooth fresh asphalt. Shovels and rakes, a robin on the power line. Later, the man arrives on roller skates with roses in his teeth, grinning bloody lips. When the owner tells him to leave, the man skates harder, crashes into the dessert case. He squirms on broken glass, scream-happy. The woman jumps, howls and points, “That’s my man! That’s my man!” and he rolls, spurts and points, “I’m her man! I’m her man!” until the police fill their heads with mace.