Dirty Laundry


The sky was on fire

from the street lights below. The ashes

fell from the clouds of smoke

drifting in from the mountains

where forests waved to

us with fingers of raging flames,

choking out the view

of the great symbol

of the American Dream,

hiding like a dysfunctional family

of letters, up there

on the Hollywood Hills.

 

This was the most peace I had all day;

watching LA County silently burning to the ground.

 

All I could actually hear was a soundtrack

of crickets singing to the cockroaches

on the midnight side-walks.

 

The wife sound

asleep, pissed off at me because I was

still dealing with our dirty laundry.

 

She told me earlier it was too late,

that I would wake up

the entire apartment

complex.

 

I went downstairs, I looked in,

it was still going at it;

my clothes wrestling with hers

for a space to breathe.

 

Back upstairs, away from the noise,

I looked out of my window to a conflict

of light. I looked up to the stars.

I saw none.

So, I turned on the TV instead, watched

a late night talk show.

[RK Wallace]

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