poem of the day 02.03.11

hipster in the laundry room

there’s a hipster in the laundry room
i don’t know how he got there
but he’s putting some of his clothing
in the washer
some in the dryer
all of his little plaid shirts
and his tight blue jeans
he’s got his head down
pressing the buttons on his smart phone
multitasking like a motherfucker
on a sunday afternoon
while i’m shoving clothing of all types
into one washer
my hair greasy
blood and wine and come
caked into my t-shirt
there’s a hipster in the laundry room
i wonder if he’s lost
he’s staring at me through those
thick glasses of his, confused
looking at me like i’m the same old story
same old act
maybe he’s seen me around the building
i think he’s judging me
i want to put his head through the wall
but i’m tired
half hungover on wine
useless from working six days
worried that my old cat is going to die
there’s a hipster in the laundry room
i wonder if he’s the one who’s been
leaving all of those david foster wallace
and jonathan safran foer novels down here
the old seasons of mad men and the wire
there’s a warm outdated six-pack of pumpkin ale
in the garbage room
and i want to ask him if it’s his
there’s a hipster in my basement
is he trying to be ironic by living down here?
putting his empty containers of tofu
and vegan cheese slices
next to my packages of bloody rancid meat
and whole milk mozzarella
there’s a hipster in my laundry room
i don’t know how long he’s been in there
but i hear 1980s music coming out of his headphones
he’s suffocating me now
sneering into his little gadget of infinite jest
laughing at some private joke
as his vintage clothing do cartwheels
in the dryer machine
this fucking hipster
he’s only going to be in this laundry room
for a short while, i know it
then he’ll move on to bigger and better ones
he’ll find his breed
they always do
i’ll probably be here forever
eternally damned
folding yellowing whites
and socks with holes in them
reading threatening letters
from the building management
that are tacked up on an old corkboard
mistaking nickels for quarters
under the blinding fluorescent lights
huffing detergent and my own stagnation
prostrate on a plastic table
humming hall and oates songs
reading that used copy of everything is illuminated
and waiting for the spin cycle to end.