She sits at the only table
In the laundromat
Bright orange lipstick
In crooked smears
Blurring the lines
Between
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
Or
The nasty spics
The stupid pollacks
The lying niggers
The thieving jews
Pick one or choose
Your own
The only variable in her
Otherwise
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