lavanderia

The days are not the same size,

  no.

      Some have been a staccato, no

real rest in between,

     necessity beating on a drum

       bending everything into sharp corners

so tight you could bounce a dime

         bag off them.

Another set of days, are

   folded elegantly, white and

unbroken on stainless steel waiting

      to be worked over in

dignified progression

       Then there are the days,no

 sun can hasten,

      stale rumpled sheets, of 

unbelievable span, 

         flung out on the floor

of a long, 

      low, and dirty room

the ones i spend    

         waiting
for the rain
   of
   your
    kiss