On the laundromat windowsill
someone left a tulip in an ashtray,
red as a tongue after cheap wine.
The petals were taking nicotine personally.
A bra revolved in the dryer
like a white flag nobody respected.
An old man folded his socks with priestly care
while the change machine coughed out one Canadian coin.
I thought of calling you, but my phone
smelled faintly of garlic and pocket heat.
When the tulip dropped a petal into the ash,
it looked exactly like rent coming due.