Spin Cycle

Monday morning was broken open
and poured into my week
like a 50 cent box of laundromat Tide.

The burden of cleansing my philosophy daily
has lead me to the
commercial grade washers.

Self-imposed exile from California
across the eastern slopes of middle-age
has left me in the rinse cycle of New England.

Separating 30 years of stained colors
from the virginal white of my youth
has left my hands cracked
and looking more like my mother's
than my own.

Then I noticed the instructions inside the lid,
"Fabrics may be combined
if cold water detergent is used."
I said to myself, "all my life I just wanted to
be cool."