light starch

the dry cleaners
with
their squeaky wheel of a rack
that takes
up the whole
store.
a world of clothes wrapped
in the thinnest
of plastic.
the odor
of chemicals in the pink
air.
shirts
and dresses. pants
suits. all made new,
crisp again
for wear.
alterations.
adjustments.
a seam sewed tight again.
your ticket brings you
what you left
three days ago
and someone behind
you
tosses down his ball
of clothes.
and says, light starch