Underthings

Underthings

The wallpaper at the laundromat
is printed with the tropics: palms,
canoes, teal green sea. Farther

back, rickety bungalows where
the locals live, the ocean there
for them so generously it makes

us visitors stare and sigh. Tahiti
or Florida, again and again around
the room. Below, the white machines

groan and gargle. Peach walls,
peach and green linoleum creased
like skin when tight clothes are

taken off, the body marked where
it meets strap and snap and seam.
Flesh remembers. Clothes forget

when we wash them. The laundromat
lets us handle our underthings together
without shame. It’s a matter of context.

The clothes are not touching us
in the intimate way that they do
usually. On the back wall, a poster,

Telluride Gallery printed large
at the top, and under that, a mountain,
and under that, another mountain,

and then a pond. Under the water,
rocks, painted with specificity,
each perfectly visible if you look.