the New Yorker

by dm gillis

if I had money to do laundry
I’d pretend to read it—
the New Yorker in the white white laundry room
& hope the other laundry zombies see me
thinking oh look at him
ain’t he intellectual!
reading articles too long (don’t they have editors?) dense & oozing smug
even when the authors play street

but the Irvin font always laughs at my poverty—
just look at the ads, I
didn’t have money for laundry 10 minutes ago
what the fuck would I do with an Audi & a bottle of single malt?
& golly look at the comics
who are these simplistic summer camp mother fuckers?
thinking they’ve got irony in their hip pockets
hugging their Swiss Army knives

it’s only three seventy-five for a wash & dry
in coin of course, yes I know it’s a lot to ask
but I smell like a holocaust
in case you haven’t noticed

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