To the window! - or was it the washer?

The basement is a place I seldom visit here at the dorms.  I prefer -
              wire picnic tables floating down Smoker's Island or
sidewalk cracks or the scruffy patch of dirt-mixed grass behind the
dumpsters at seven-eleven. (Yes, I did pass out there to
have some police or paramedic or both peel my squirming
vein from the ground to settle snug into an IV.) Still -
I'd like to say its got charm,
All the same.

But also, mostly,
sitting in the center of the floor in one of those
glass, racquetball cubicles in all my neon shorts, tube socks,
sweatband gear glory.  Swatting the same damned ball against that
same, back wall. over and over and over again. (or was it
again and again and over?) so that I can
watch it bounce back.

Or just kind of roll back.

                  (Is that the same?)

Yeah, but this basement business.  That's where they
stuck the laundry room at.  Where we haul all
our sweaty socks and soiled panties and padded
bras and last, scrounged up, pocket-jean
                  Quarters and

Sink into that one, red couch and
look at those ten, white washers and
stare at those ten, white dryers that
line those four, white walls beneath some
seven, fluorescent lights like some
seven, deadly sins
Staining (or illuminating?) your
sole, white sheet of paper.

Or Soul.

                (Is that the same?)

But luckily, I took my Adderall today so there's
No real twitch or tangent
No real cowbell or hippie feet
No real thunderstorms on rooftops with goggles
Or billy-goat Nonsense to
Distract me...



(Is that sane?)