washing machine dreamhouse

Here is the scene displayed:

it plays forwards and backwards,

reverses and reoccurs,

a time warp and

its victims displaced,

trapped in their perpetual state of ‘should’.

One stranger to another: 

“Would you snag that second straw 

to split this strawberry malt 

and window-watch

the window-watchers with me?”

The props, two paper wrappers

fidget-accordion-folded on the 

fingerprint-smudged countertop.

“They’re shopping for a meaning.”

Cents for sense. 

Petty penny synthetics–

 no exchanges.

Now outside on the corner, 

a hound pops a quarter 

in the gumball machine, 

chews on a blue-flavored thought,

a cherry-stained tongue,

mouths candy-coated phrases to

the passers-by in their green-screen dreams.

The ball has dropped. The

glass facade is shattered, 

molten sugar-rainbow-blood spattered

across the concrete. 

His gumball’s a plastic decoy, 

a children’s toy.

A pink-cheeked kid fell for it.

Barbie boy goes for a spin, 

spits chipped-tooth shards, carries on

wearing his tight-lipped broken grin.