i woke up this morning to
screaming cats, thinking about
the washing machine.
apparently, it dripped some water
at some point.
i don’t know, i didn’t see it.
i washed some towels to see
while drinking the morning’s
coffee, and everything is fine.
now it’s afternoon and i still
look like bed in a morning.
the cats are silent now, but
i’m still annoyed.
now i listen, this american
life, a repeat about valentines
day.
someone dryly speaking about
love lost and long gone.
i am squinting at poems
by bukowski. i hear the
same dry voice, his words,
conflicting with the radio.
i am leaking out the meaning of
each voice’s commentary, but
the floor is dry under the
washing machine.