Wednesday, October 22, 2008: On the Street...Tailored Tee, Paris

Somewhere nearby, someone is doing the laundry.
I smell the powder and suds on the wind.
All the clotheslines have vanished,
but they’ve left a phantom fragrance.
It’s up to you to hear the clothes flapping
like a white sail, a rug being shaken over a balcony,
a paintbrush’s first contact with a wall,
the muffled thwap spattering your face
with coloured punctuation marks.