Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Launderette in Paris

A girl in the sill
of a launderette,
her back to the street.
Creaseless is her blouse,
starched white
the paper on her knee.
She is scribbling
line after line
of tiny words.

Cellophane wrapped
round a faded bouquet of
mauve and burgundy.
Sepia its fragile leaves;
brittle its petals.

The girl is writing
in the windowsill,
while the washing machines
are churning,
in their diurnal course.

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