115/365

i don’t remember
ever doing laundry
in my twenties:
not in san diego
not in san rafael
not in novato
not in san francisco
not in new your city.
there must have
been jars of quarters
and laundry bags
and laundromats,
hours of hungover
waiting. reading
big sur, tropic of cancer,
hells angels and love
is a dog from hell.

as a matter of fact,
i don’t remember
ever buying clothes
in my twenties.
things fell
into my lap.
picked up
from the floor.
here and there.
took that shirt
from his places
in santa barbara and la,
cut up those
fox motorcross pants
and wore them to
classes before
dropping out.
checkered chef’s pants
worn as long shorts
with a singlet
to pier 23.
maybe some
goodwill slacks
and vintage tees.

but i must have
washed the clothes
somehow. somewhere.
because,
the one time
jeff brought home
jewel that pitbull
when we all shared a room
in that place on mary lane  
and all our clothes
jumbled on the floor
and the dog
was seldom walked
and it got stuck
in the room overnight
and in the morning
the whole room stank
and we couldn’t find
the turd;
i probably didn’t
leave the house
smelling like dog shit.

or maybe I did.
i don’t remember
ever doing laundry
in my twenties.