laundry room

Krishna puts down His flute to read instructions
His basket filled with celestial garments the
thick blue liquid matches His skin in the
fluorescent light
detergent works best in warm water
this is the physical universe

He sits and lights a Camel after
engaging a machine there is
a stack of Vanity Fair He
reads about Jack Nicholson and
then counts His thousand names

summer is a season of white
there is chlorine bleach on the air and
fabric softener sheets tumbling
He hears millions chant His name as He
snuffs out His cigarette, pondering dharma
and remembering the sink-full of
last night’s dishes

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