Laundry
The wind roars in dandelions and a mane of white halos her index finger. The sky is a banana peel, bruised and being peeled back. Clouds come. She sits at the top of the hill with her legs crossed, legs stained green. The clothesline filled with waving dresses and socks and jeans. Rain falls so far down the hill that she can't even hear it hit the ground. Just streaks like light, dust filled beams, that's how it looks out there; that's how it seems. And the blues are grays. Yeah and the clouds are drapes. Our eyes are bathroom mirrors. Dew is just condensation from the shower's heat. Yeah and the girls are summers that no one else can see, even she, crossing her arms over her chest, pocketing summer in the folds of denim threads; a note to say everything that needs to be said. Otherwise the poets would forget that they're writing about everyone they wish they had met.