The window of my job is bedazzled with fly carcass
flattened between the screen
and some life worth laying eggs in
it’s usually on my lunch break
I can see right through their make shift mausoleum
to our neighbors clothes line
like a bird watcher
through the kaleidoscope binoculars
there’s always the camisole blushed with cinnamon
the pencil shaving duvet slip
checkered boxer shorts swaying like sheet music
caught in the breeze
a starched parade for September’s finale
I clock in late again
to spy on the old woman installing her linen exhibits
stapling them right onto the horizon
a hunched museum curator in blue fuzzy slippers
we both have our men
that are nothing more than bodies filling the boxers
like they were picked up by the sky
from their back belt loops
and held there with clothes pins
for us to admire
like bird watchers
Fruit Of The Loom
Flies pressed into a screen, a lunch break spent watching laundry sway across a neighbor’s line.
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