so you get on your concrete-kissed-knees to look under the couch,
and it’s all: dust blanketed over wood.
You find Little Kate’s pink sock
that had been ruled swallowed by the cat.
You find the “draw four” UNO card, but leave it be
because you hate that one.
You find a hair pin, an oval pill, and a Cheeze-it.
You make two tiny grey snow angels in the dust
before searching elsewhere.
At the arcade down the block, you press coin returns
until your fingers blister and the manager barks, getouttahere.
You wiggle a tooth, not quite loose enough for a fairy-visit.
You make stomach-ache-sour lemonade in solo cups,
and wait on the corner for Mrs. Brown to return from church.
She hands you a five-dollar bill.
The machine only takes quarters Mrs. Brown; no thank you.
Heavy-chested, you run up the stairs and pocket what you can:
a button ripped from your winter coat
a bottlecap
a red checker piece
a seashell, and the laundry.
You squish and wiggle and try to fit each one into the hungry machine.
You stare at the stack of stinking clothes and start to cry.
A warm hand on your shoulder, less leathery, more hand-creamy than mom’s,
with a softer, less-Brooklyn voice attached, says, honey, use these.
She presses two silver coins into your palm.
They slip into the opening and the machine begins to purr.
The water runs and runs like a warm bath on payday, topped with bubbles from a tube.
You curl up in a pile, much like the clothes, and it sings you to sleep.
