Washing Machine

The weather
phones it in

spring's a little
indicating this year--

a barrel of apples
without a retake, but

anywhere upstage
past act three is

a forest of elbows,
Sen-Sen breath

with little bites
attached:--

engorged
like the lines of force

in a woodcut windmill
watch the washing machine face

spin out of character:
the miracle of half-price Tuesday

carved out of
the larger miracle of laundry

through condensated
gaps rubbed

brown pigeons
with white chevrons

drop radar tinsel
on armloads of cashmere,

Reader's Digests
limp as kid leather

skitter wounded-bird
style dropped with intent

on enameled trays for
generic pop, ashtrays

and exits
spotwelded, but

oh for the billows
and billows of hot steam

to hide the
anthropomorphic array,

the green stalkers
in the park,

the variously angry
smug, gleeful,

anxious, stoic
and startled faces

of the babies, the leaves
and the cars.