most mornings she’s still there
at six o’clock
it’s the only storefront lit-up
up and down the dark street
sort of a sanctuary for stray human beings
her shirtsleeves rolled up to her elbows
a bandana around her head
cigarette stuck in her lips
at this hour in the Lazybones Laundromat
she’s Queen Shit
sorting piles of dirty clothes
dropped off for wash and fold
whites colors and delicates
hot warm and cold
her haul spread out across the folding tables
in soiled mounds stacked on her tiptoes
it’s a day at the beach for this little mama
who breaks a sweat as if it were corked champagne
sudsy waves splashing against the glass doors
in the row of machines along the wall
soaked clothes swimming in a mad water ballet
she’s got her solitary shift down to a shadow dance
as another wet load goes washer to basket to dryer
in the warm glow of those long florescent bulbs
where the wages of sin are minimum
she makes the most of the dark hours
sleepers waste on dreaming
and when the day finally breaks
her vertebrae are bricks
made of hourglass sand

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Mickey Mahan has spent nearly three decades behind the wheel of a transit bus, writing WHILE he drives on a pocket-size memo pad (he calls his writing practice "Writing On The Edge Of My Seat"), the poems, the songs, the plays, the journals, the essays have raised an itch in his arse the driver's seat can't scratch. So, he's creased their paper wings for publication.A pogo stick master and hula hoop enthusiast, he waxes his mustache in concentric curlicues and romps the floorboards of his boathouse with two gorgeous redheads: wife, Deb "Red Lily" Thorna and our Pomahuahua princess Phoebe du Soleil. His sobriquet, "The Flying Busman," he's inherited from his great, great, great, great uncle "The Flying Dutchman."