The Spin Cycle

She sits at the only table
In the laundromat

Bright orange lipstick
In crooked smears
Blurring the lines

Then and now

Dressed in feathery cotton skirt
And starched linen blouse
She crosses veined gnarled hands
And waits for him to greet her

Thirty years her junior
He sits down opposite
Tilts his head to one side
And says, every time

Lois, is it?

Which is all the
Invitation she needs

It is always the same
Life story revealed
The streets of Detroit
In the 1930’s

Where self-respecting
WASP young of
High brow America
Played games in the streets

At dusk

And joked about the
Dirty irish


The nasty spics
The stupid pollacks
The lying niggers
The thieving jews

Pick one or choose
Your own
The only variable in her

Word-for-word memoir

Recited each time
With the passion of conviction

Sticking like honey
On the silver tongue
Of a golden girl

And the message
If ever there was one

Lost in the whir of
The spin cycle

After one too many rinses

2 Responses to “The Spin Cycle”

  1. Ah those memories~!
    Where would we be without them…
    Oh yeah, same place with all dem thievin’ jews..

  2. I’m thinkin’ bogus-land…….

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