Megan Alyse

The Destruction of America Happens on a Saturday

All the washing machines, in America, explode
on a Saturday at 12pm. Laundry day, ruined.
The wives must buy their husbands new underwear
and husbands must buy their wives new dresses.
Children go sockless in their sneakers.
You hoarded all the clean underwear in the house.
You wore that skirt you’d never wear.
Neighbors helped neighbors pull buttons from the walls.
There were only two casualties: Old Whiskers
who would lie on the Spencer’s machine
to feel the heat and Marjorie,
who liked to stand atop her washing machine,
on bulky-cycle, doing yoga. She said it was good
for her thighs. Everyone is left
with soapy holes in the walls
and scraps of wet cotton, rayon, and jeans.
On Monday, people wear bathing suits,
sarongs, and their church slacks to work.
With time, clothes become disposable,
made of decomposable paper. Unfortunate
when it rains. Dryers, drying nothing,
are end tables. Now,
there are no space capsules for young kids
to stick their dogs into.
Sears says it’s feminism.
Maytag blames the Russians.
Christians say, the nudists. Entropy ensues.
National Guardsmen carry metal carcasses
from people’s homes. Red Cross begins making shirts
out of plastic bags and then, naturally, the fashion industry
collapses. China cuts trade deals,
textiles are now irrelevant and plastic is no longer a problem.
Neither are nipples in public. The media melts down
because there is nothing left to sell.
You begin to forget what it was like
to have socks on your feet.
You forget what soft cotton feels like on your skin.
People put money in their mattresses.
You’re left with rusty water stains on the wall,
left wondering what was holding it all together
to begin with.

One thought on “Megan Alyse

  1. “Mind-blowingly good,” said the 56-year old guy I was blowing in the wee hours after asking him what he thought of this poem we’d both read–separately–yesterday. I don’t know why I asked him right at that moment, but I did. And yeah, “really, really good,” he said (about the poem, still) and I concurred with the surd, “Iknowmmright?” as carefully as possible while maintaining a steady, rhythmic assent motion with my head.

    Liked by 1 person

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