Me and Marlene sit tight in her truck

parked right outside the Laund-o-rama.

Marlene’s just quit her Persian lover

who kisses like a barnful of electric

swallows.  She says her wedded husband doesn’t

kiss.

          So leave!

Can’t.

          Why not?

He’d get the kids.

She sure needs a Kleenex but all’s I have

is a mini-pad wrapped in pink plastic.

Inside, the Laund-o-rama steams like a Carolina

swamp.  As kids, we built tree forts, safe

from our parents’ godlike opinions.  We thought

we would prevail, garrisoned.  We would never be

as sad as our parents.

                            If we moved to Vancouver

with the kids, the men could visit if they behave.

How practical is that?  Marlene sobs

into the mini-pad.  See that girl

at the bus stop, hugging her viola tight?  Maybe

Bach on the brain.  Maybe not.