Washing Clothes on a Sunday Morning.

The bushes at
The laundromat
In the middle of
The city
Are abuzz
With bees.
Lilly-laced
Butterflies dance
Over the nearly-even
Branches, filled in
Since the last
Trim.
The world outside
Of silicon binary walls,
Artificially constructed
By the least intelligent,
Roofless
But contained;
This slowly ageing world
Of butterflies and bees
Contains the wisdom
Of the universe
And all her sacred
Design.
Sounds of cars
Passing gassily by
On streets untended to
And holey like an
Unholy minefield
Of maelstrom-inducing
Destructive attempts
To tame what nature
Despises.
My consciousness drifts
To neighboring launderers
As they dead-eyed
Submit to the
Ones and zeroes
That flow from crescent
Bent palms as
Thumbs busily manipulate
Their cold interiors.
What did we do with
The silence
Before we forgot
To be distracted?
We are husks
Consumed by our
Fruitless consumerism
And –
Oh my!
Another sweet butterfly!

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