Wednesday, April 4, 2007
At the Cleaners
I was a suit on a drycleaner’s rack. A gray faucet drips at the end of the line. All night my closest friends and I advance toward the hissing machine. I with the loose red dye, with innumerable dark buttons, and a black ink stain in the pocket above the heart. My naked owner with his chewed stub is cowering in the waiting room. The store lights have been turned off, and the closed sign flipped. Outside it slowly becomes morning and a line of naked men forms at the door. The first ones through are a priest, a minister, and a rabbi. They’re demanding their clothes, but unfortunately for them I’ve died them all pink.