Clorox
With quivering fluorescents
Casting outlines on the pale,
Concrete block walls,
He separates the whites
From the darks, from the delicates,
Scaling each tiny mountain
Of shirtsleeves and pantcuffs,
Avalanching sand and grassclippings
Over his gnarled, root-like feet,
To the cement floor, painted, worn,
And now flaked, grey.
He fumbles through the dust
And the chitin carcasses lining the pressboard shelf
That sits in the corner of the basement,
Knocking over detergent,
Roach killer, mouse traps,
Before finding the stale,
Now empty bottle of bleach.
He digs his hands
Into the pile of underwear,
Socks, and undershirts,
Catching small chips of paint
From the floor under his fingernails.
And he swears, flinging the colorless
Heap into the empty drum.
He closes the lid,
Jabbing at the oversized button
On the top of the machine,
Letting water, powder,
and the last few drops of Clorox
Tug at the stains
From his armpits, neck, and feet,
Muddying the water,
And yellowing his whites.
