Dirty Laundry

Dirty laundry in the street,
on a cement rug, blue
legs walking, feet stumping,
as sweaty palms slide against
the poverty of her jeans,
she tumbles through
mosquitos, ashamed
of her skin. They are
stinging her anyway;
her arms and legs,
mindless creatures
nibbling, sucking.

Swaddled in polyester
thoughts, convulsed
in cottony memories,
a jungle of voices
traps her in the wilderness
of dirty laundry in the
corner of the room.
Pants, torn t-shirts,
and stockings engage
in intercourse, as she
presses her fists against
her eyes.

A sphere of laundry
hisses whispers of
gossip as she leans on
the window ceil.
Pressing her cheeks against
the glass, she suffocates
inside her box of dirty
laundry. Her breath
crinkles like a stale sock
that can no longer stand
on its feet.