Cleaning up in the eternal spin cycle

cleaning up in the eternal spin cycle,

that’s where I’m goddamned at

nietzsche yells into his cell

in the laundromat.

listen didn’t I say I’d be home by nine,

my precious amor fati,

and doesn’t that always come to pass,

whether we clock it as we argue or not,

he whines as he pushes his mop

between my feet,

likely inadvertently piling up dusty quarters

under the table I’m folding my

arms to rest my weary head upon.

have I learned my lesson yet,

is the coin of the realm

in this all-night facility for

accepting the stains

that will never wash out.