Quincy Lehr Brummel sound

It always fucking feels like laundry day.
+++++++I’m sure you’ve had the thought.
It’s always clothing spinning round,
+++++++a partnerless sock that’s caught,
wedged in the dryer door, its pattern subtle.
+++++++Its colors, though, are bold—
or were. The fabric’s fraying now,
+++++++worn until it’s old.

This boredom’s not a case of irony
+++++++dressed in drag as wit.
It’s not a drink in Prospect Park.
+++++++It’s not the way you sit
behind a glass of piss on Friday night,
+++++++trying hard to bear it,
the wink-nudge grin, the footsie fling.
+++++++How did we inherit

these walk-up flats, the upward trudge of rents
+++++++for places to put the cat
on the other side of the BQE,
+++++++blocks from Where It’s At?
Who’ll preach the jeremiad? Where’s the man
+++++++descending from a bike
to make the prophecy? He waits
+++++++at Friday’s open mic

to say what everybody almost knows,
+++++++although we all digress
from the thing that’s obvious:
+++++++Our wardrobes are a mess
of kitsch and smirking cloth quotation marks.
+++++++It’s best to know your roots
in struggles against the landlord class
+++++++while wearing vintage boots.

You swear you’ll make it last another year
+++++++like one last baby tooth,
like one more hit on mp3
+++++++by an aging Sonic Youth.
Where’s Comrade Brummell? Where’s his white cravat?
+++++++When will he come in view?
I’ve hankered for his fashion tips,
+++++++but all I see is you.

The laundry seems to blossom every day
+++++++and quarters disappear
as money fails to stanch the tide.
+++++++The slogans seemed so clear.
“We are the people!” Or was it “Yes we can!”?
+++++++I somehow doubt that’s true.
I wanted work with elegance
+++++++but ended up with you.

The laundry spins but never seems to dry.
+++++++My socks are always damp,
squishing around inside my boots.
+++++++Back home, the bedside lamp
illuminates the text but gives no warmth.
+++++++It seems I’m almost through
with one more book I hoped I’d like
+++++++but kept discussing you.

Let’s hear that witticism one more time.
+++++++Let’s hope that we don’t rue
its syllables that snapped around
+++++++the fucking mess of you.
Perhaps the end is coming soon, or just
+++++++another thing that’s new.
I prayed for a new Jerusalem.
+++++++No one replied but you.

As first published in the current edition of The Poetry Bus (PB3) a magazine of poetry and illustration with audio CD.