The blue-gray brushes speak in tongues,
slapping the frame like softening fists.
Through the windshield, the soap spreads
like cataracts over an aging eye.
Inside, I sit tight in the hum,
sealed as if within a womb’s slick.
The whirl outside promises nothing—
mechanical rage caught in its loops.
And the brushes retreat, abscond in arcs,
their bristles streaming damp and light.
The rinse comes soft through the ceilings,
a gentle smashing of sky to earth.
For a moment, glass feels like shelter,
like the plate glass of aquariums’ gaze—
the roar of water held distant, uttered
only within quick-edged safety.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 28th, 2025 10:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments3
My subscription more or less demanding this daily ritual, you've rendered it so deliciously poetic I can't resist the indulgence. Superbly rendered with exquisite imagery and a fascinating poignancy. Thank you very much for sharing.
Thank You Missy I appreciate your feedback and support
A good description of a carwash indeed and it might well be of a birth as well. Nicely done
Thank You Soren I appreciate your feedback and continued support
great write
Thank You for sharing your feedback
most welcome
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