Secret Life of the Coin-Operated Laundromat Owner

The lone cafe in Kentuckiana
not dedicated to our Savior Jesus Christ
as decorating motif,
but I had issues with the representational art.
The paintings were ripped off
from Balthus—
knee-high bobby socks, women stroking
cats, pianos vibrating like chakras nearby—
minus the menacing
sexual allusion. What good is that?
Sometimes I was the orchid’s sparkplug.
Lots of my ideas
sprang from comic books.
I had x-ray vision wishes and flew around
in a jockstrap: red, white and blue.
One night I dreamt the strength
of Neptune’s hammer.
I hovered like a bee
just inches above the sun, the whole congregation
withholding medicine
and water. Therapists said
it was chemical, that I lived in an age
of excessive excess when really
small potatoes and a smile
were all I needed.
As heavenly bodies go,
the barista was completely Copernican.
Spaghetti strap halter, hip-hugger
jeans, funky flip-flops, toenails decorated
Demolition Red.
Sweetheart, I thought, I hate it when you leave,
but I love to watch you go.
I heard Willie Nelson said that, and maybe
Hermes too.
I wanted to say something similar without
getting slapped or beer tossed in my face.
I foraged like a refugee
for durable solutions. I looked like a preacher
for something to blame: the 12^th century,
NAFTA, pneumatically transported
germs in the crops.
The police scanners squawked
their tricky business like a bruised fist
for a heart. I thought
annihilate was too sentimental.
I thought if I held my ground like a claw-footed
tub, my iron sides would be filled
in one even flow.