Electric lights glow glum.
We are in the rear, dark from

two o'clock on. The air out back
is gray, stuffed, thick,

a mattress. The screens
alone keep it out.

I am fated to wash and fry,
wash and fry. When I die,

mourners will come
with lint and breadcrumbs.

When the sponges wince,
I throw them out.

When my feet get stuck
in the buckets,

I take them to the curb
with the rest of the garbage.