The Wash
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A poem about the broadening reach of stains we try to cover & hide away.
Smoke glaze of Crayola pink
salmons through foamy Colgate
spat from mouth
to porcelain sink in the washroom
nearest the bedroom overslept in this morning.
To look at it, spineless and slow,
amid hunkering swirl
gurgling down to wish on gators,
is to see the frail rivulet percolate
on New Hampshire’s white meadow late in December,
to see it bubble
beneath blood oaths of brothers,
solemnly sworn,
made null by the twist of an axis
wringing the color of life from
tattered red panties
tossed to the tumble of snow-soaked socks
circling like doves through soap and boiling water.
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2019
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