Laundromat  Madonna

She precisely folded

the baby clothes and being

a long time laundromat

habitual, I recognized the signs.

Obsession at the laundromat level

is usually the last attempt

at order in a life without.

The two blackened puffy eyes

and the swollen lip were

not too subtle clues and

the bent nose and scar upon

the cheek told more of what

she was going home to.

She worked with such care,

such intense deliberation,

there, in the holy golden glow

of the afternoon sunlight,

an American Madonna, and

I wondered, after she left,

what I should have done, and

what I could possibly do.

                            Alix Hellas