Laundromat Madonna
She precisely folded
the baby clothes and being
a long time laundromat
habitual, I recognized the signs.
Obsession at the laundromat level
is usually the last attempt
at order in a life without.
The two blackened puffy eyes
and the swollen lip were
not too subtle clues and
the bent nose and scar upon
the cheek told more of what
she was going home to.
She worked with such care,
such intense deliberation,
there, in the holy golden glow
of the afternoon sunlight,
an American Madonna, and
I wondered, after she left,
what I should have done, and
what I could possibly do.
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