Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

For anyone who's held the door open for someone
with a particularly heavy load.

Anyone pretending to watch the weather report
while secretly eyeing
a stranger's delicates swirl
around in that first meeting between
her Friday of love-making,
and her Wednesday, say,
alone with an In Style,
Corn Bran straight from the box,
trimming her fingernails.

I am trying to finish a Russian novel.
I am trying to hear Jerry Seinfeld expound
on an observational diamond,

but this hum is like a heart machine
and I want to write to anyone who has buried

their hands into clean clothes and felt
the memory of two mugs
from last Saturday morning
still warming the palms of their hands.

Isn't the temperature balmy in here?
Don't all of our pockets call out like bells?
And doesn't pouring powdered detergent sound
like the slanted roof, that first day in spring
when all of the old snow fell?

I want to thank the proprietors
who close up late,
who know laundry
is often done
when it's all that's left to do.

To dedicate this to the Coin O' Rama
after it empties.
To end with the last one there-
the Korean woman with slender fingers
picking lint and old dryer sheets deep
from the spent metal bowels-

with how perfect the moment must feel

when she closes the lid
of the trash can
filled with clouds.

Nick Thran likes the spin cycle best.