By Denise R. Weuve
First appeared in South Coast Poetry Journal

We noticed the swish
of the washing machines
we sat on. Fingers,
mine, began tapping
on the metal slot
that ate our quarters.
I heard your foot
clicking against
the mustard colored machines
and looked up.
Black hair
clung to your shiny
olive forehead. Yes
it was hot; I could
feel the stickiness
of sweat on my neck.
Eyebrows arching, you smiled,
hopped down to the white
tile floor, littered
with empty Downy
bottles, and Clorox
bleach containers.
You took my wrist pulled
me to you, wrapped your
arms around my back
and began to rocking.
I blushed watching
the eyes of middle
aged woman grow
with each clumsy step
you led me into.
You kicked away a soap
box to free our path
as we twirled and spun.
The only eyes I saw
then were yours, a swirl
of green that lifted
me until we were
spinning and spinning
and the dryers had
stopped to stare.

First appeared in South Coast Poetry Journal

Advertisements

2 comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s