In the front load washer, I can see whites and darks
and grays mixed together. The checked blue shirt,
gym shorts with the single cinched drawstring,
and the lacy number that may be a halter top.
I look at your clothes like an alien species
or as a xenophobe looks at their neighbor,
considering him an alien, too. Either way,
we’re talking different. The cold derision alarms
me – thoughts of how worn these clothes look,
how drab those colors seem through the glass
and I wonder what kind of person
belongs to these clothes. They were spinning,
now stopped, I wait to see who will claim them.

The irony isn’t lost on me. The holes
in my jeans are no less than I am willing
to wear. The giggling infant flying around me
propelled by her father’s arms, his long blonde
hair contrasts his black hoodie just as it does
his friend’s hair, nearly black, like my wife’s.
So dark. So different. The flying infant, chasing
a boy around the banks of 4-load washers,
her giggles the same as in my memories
of airplanes and chase and giving her
the chance to actually fly.