To Tiffany Who Tried to Save my Soul in the Washateria.

To Tiffany Who Tried to Save my Soul in the Washateria.

She asked me where I might be
if God decided to spin the world to chaos.
She preached slowly at first,
amidst the drumming dryers.
The churning stirred her onward,
her palms clutching quarters,
waiting to offer them up as communion.

As she spoke her hands,
omehow hardened from year of faith,
motioned over the piles of laundry
as if she were causing the loads to multiply.
She talked about the blood of the lamb
and how I would not be saved
but there was till time for me and my soul,
and I let her continue.

Suddenly, she snapped
a pair of trouser in the air to fold them,
then she packed her socks in tight bundles
and cast them into her basket.

Burdening her cross of laundry
she lifted her socks bunched tight
like stones to pelt the unbelievers,
her hair draped like a saint's.

How could one so lovely
be so sharpened against conversation?

I wanted to pill her bundled sock
and hold her.

I wanted to tell her of my heaven
where we read poetry
and break bread together
under life oak in February.

I wanted to tell her
of the welcoming of desire.