Outside the Laundromat I

Read poetry in a folding chair

And in the crossing lives of those

    across the street.

 

The fires of the dryers and

Waters of the washers work

For the old Greek woman inside.

 

I left a mother folding

Sheets with her daughter

tied to her back in a blanket.

 

Shaded by a tree one speaks

Spanish low and rolling.

 

Absently in the full Saturday

Sun, words are translated.

 

“I had a beautiful night last night.”

 

A breeze always seems a sign,

And she passing with summer,

I saved her words in the collection.

 

Before Babel, did everyone speak

    the same poetry?