Leaving Tulsa

Woman on the Street with Laundry

73 Woman on the Street with Laundry In the birdcage of dusk the gray pigeons gather. The bus is late. Evening crowds. I wait beneath the purpling shroud of fog, search for the moon in oil-slicked puddles. But it is only the headlights of cars washing over. Dragging my laundry like a bag of stones, I sit on the cold bench clutching my body. A woman peels off her clothes like petals. A left-behind shadow stickered to the wall. Here under streetlamps what trails me, I follow. Like this woman combing past with her empty shopping cart. The vacant all-night Laundromat whirs its white lights. The tide of night grazes the fray of my shadow. I drop two coins in my murky reflection and pigeons scatter from a heaping gutter. Detached now my shadow is a puddle of stars. My imprint in tar teems with feathers. My body is moonlight rippling clean. ...