AT THE LAUNDROMAT

I watch the mother,
with her two teenage daughters,
through the laundromat window.
I can tell by the crack in the door
that they are feeling a draft,
and do not regret it
since they have just dumped
my wet laundry into the cart.
An act which so riles me
that I am inclined to go in
and tell her how much prettier
my own child is, stronger
and smarter, so smart she
has managed to avoid laundry
all her life, in fact.

Watching them through the glass,
while the radio plays,
I think of all the scenes
I have wanted to film.
As they fold their mint green towels
and purple sweat pants,
I see the photographs I wanted to take,
all the faces I wanted to sculpt,
simply because it would justify
touching them, learning their
bones and their flesh.