this is very much a first draft — may look better or worse in the AM. Comments welcome.

I don’t believe in you, Beauty

A man in the corner of the laundromat
repeats this every twelve seconds
while my clothes spin dry behind him

I am sure he’s talking to me
I don’t believe in Beauty either
We’ve had this talk before

I wash my clothes three times a week
here on Highland Street where all the philosophers do
I get everything very clean

because cleanliness is near unto God
and since I don’t believe in Beauty
God’s what I fall back on

For the man in the corner God is Beauty
His existence is neither clean nor holy
He washes his clothes only when they stink

I try to keep my distance
afraid of lowering my standards
perhaps

but I listen and it’s hard sometimes
not to disagree when he says it
in an effort to make him feel better

I don’t believe in you, Beauty

his face so grey
his hands so gnarled
his eyes so soft

I would hold him close
if I could
get by the smell

but if that were meant to be
surely God would wash him
or at least get him to wash his clothes

I shake it off
I ask him to move
It’s time to fold