Laundry day

i wonder where my quarter has been
from when it dropped out of its mold
got caught between the folds
of clothes
and landed shinycold
on a winter ground--
was it part of a fair wage to a coffee harvester?

i wonder where my quarter has been
since its minutes at the mint
before its brief bank stint
now getting mixed up with my lint--
did it ever fund the Iraq war?

i wonder where my quarter has been
and who it has favored,
was it ever savored like the
last bite of an ice cream cone
dripping all over your fingers?
or was it spent spent spent
before it had time to repent--

always switching hands
(but never switching sides)

9/10

I am running my hand across poems
It is like pressing a rubber stamp with feathers
sticking to it onto a smooth white page

I can see little difference between
writing and breathing
between a sagging couch and an alcoholic
between an apple and the sharpened point of a pencil;
they all seem synonymous.

They are calling me outside
but i am lost amongst the words of others
and cannot find my voice to say no.

Instead, I say,
"art is a form of catharsis"
I say,
"By Christ I am no carpenter"
I say,
"My joy is like Spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth"

I find my voice and I say:
"come back tomorrow"