The Dryer at the Laundromat

My mind and memory are already decaying
as I race against the clock
to make my mark upon this dreary world;
to leave it more beautiful.

Credence rises to the diced dichotomy of empty words;
gathering meanings where none were implied.

I know I write too much; and so...
I'd like to lean my face on the dryer
at the laundromat by the motel on Main,
and absorb the warmth and watch the clothes spinning.

Reds.

Blues.

Greens.

Blacks & Whites.


[22:19|28.12.011] ©c.thomas.carter