Small Concerns

[Frank E Gibbard]

What the poet lacked today was inspiration

His muse had packed gone on vacation

He wandered far and wide and thin beside

Contemplated, no not that,

But going to the laundromat.

 

And so he sat among some single singular folk

Thinking this is a sad, bad joke.

Life is like a terrifying funfair ride

An unedifying, eddy-defying,

White water slide

You're in it, and you cannot hide

Small like a cork in a maelstrom,

Like a stalk in a storm,

Spun like his smalls behind glass;

Running on warm,

Ending cold but clean, all falls out.

 

A public washing room,

What a place to get philosophical,

Exposing one's dirty washing to

Others' gaze albeit to the few

Is something he didn't like to do

Let alone in ways some non-winners

Expose to Gerry Springer;

The sort of low thing he'd certainly eschew

A bout of humiliation a singleton's malaise

Akin to catering for one, those TV dinner trays.

 

Feeling washed up he slunk off,

"My lady's away," his pay-off

With a nervous cough.

His muse would have to bunk off now,

Leaving him with writer's block, and how;

The low-down no good disloyal cow,

He was as unamused as would be Queen Victoria

On a day she and Albert had a row.

[dcmarti1]

"Contemplated, no not that,

But going to the laundromat."

 

-- Brilliant!

 

And "malaise" and "dinner trays"?

 

-- Unique. Very clever.

 

I've just never thought of laundromats as sad. :)