Thursday, August 18, 2016


The opening, the frame, the summer night, - the solitary car there by the side. It’s an area that is growing, that will soon enough tear down the old strip plazas. And maybe that is as it should be, - for even these strip plazas don’t offer much in the way of poems, romanticism, or anything. They are for the most part only and simply dirty, derelict, without, lacking, and the lots bumpy, pot-hole laden, - scarred by this or that, with the ways in and out to small, on too high of a slope, and with poor sightlines. Nevertheless there is still something, an inkling, a neat view, - if you look at the night from down the way, from across the way, from nearly anyway, - at the old Laundromat, open- its door like an inviting arm, - out to the feral small city and its inhabitants. Each town has one of these,- nearly each town, and they have a certain character, an illogical grimy quaintness,- and the machines are lined up like pins, like metal containers, like strange robots from the future (or the past), like dots or words in a story. Spin and spin. Tables, chairs, - everything in its place,and the traffic going past outside,- now up the way,- headlights, sounds, some wind, a sprinkling of rain now and again. The washers and dryers turn and tumble, - the sign outside is faded, almost just a white lit up rectangle with no letters whatsoever. If you were a stranger, an alien, a soul new to the earth,- I wonder what would be thought of this place,- this minimal environment that is left open and lit up at night, like some solitary electrical light house on the edge of a modern village?


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