There is a little girl reading aloud.

Dryers spin with reckless abandon
and a little girl with an afro puff
is sitting on a counter, reading aloud.

A muscular Latino man gestures emphatically
on a twenty seven inch TV screen
while captions run in Spanish
his co-star pouts, endless vistas of hair
cascading down her exposed shoulders.
Below, towels duel with socks
in seemingly infinite circles.
Words of Barbara Park
slowly work their way
through a five year old's brain,
sitting on a counter
reading aloud.

An older Chicano boy stomps his feet
demanding a fourth candy bar after
his tired mother finally drew the line
leading to stare-gathering meltdown
raised voices and judgements being levied
by people with no right.
Overhead the Latino actor
sweeps the big haired woman into his arms,
music swelling behind them
in soft focus lighting, irrespective of
dance between delicates and drawstring sweats,
moisture losing its battle against heat
while a little girl adjusts her glasses,
enunciating Junie B. Jones'
tattered talk and mangled messages

It's Thursday night,
Headlights of busy thoroughfare
blur by outside
like dreams left behind
and sure,
we'd all probably love change
and justice
and maybe, just maybe
for tomorrow to be even a little bit better than today.

But that's tomorrow.
Tonight there's tantrums and Telemundo,
towels and t-shirts,
and two eyes
looking through glasses
enjoying newfound power of understanding
what all those funny little squiggles mean
with every syllable
from her sweet little lips.

"The Laundromat"
By Hannibal Tabu
090924