They say the body’s a temple. Mine’s more like

a used double-wide from that discount lot,
leaning slightly south where the cinderblocks
settled wrong. It makes sound 
like a cat caught in the dryer vent.
Good bones, maybe. More a string 
of prayer beads
knotted by a clumsy saint. It carries pain
like the culvert conducts spring rain–pools
in unexpected lows. 
 
Today, I navigate a sea of linoleum, 
past the Mexican grocery
to where I do 
my laundry–choking
on the plumes and waves of fabric softener.
My lungs start singing soprano.
 
A teenager, limbs like fresh-cut saplings,
darts past, a blur of peach fuzz 
and body spray.
My oxygen pump telegraphs
air, a message: Remember
agility? I laughed at it. Briefly. 
Salute the ache.

Old comrades. 
 
The laundry attendant (name tag askew,
hair a dark thundercloud), peers over her specs.
She chuckles, a sound like gravel 
in a coffee can.
“Bless your heart. Hang in there.”
 
I shuffle out, victor of the clean brief,
into the parking lot’s flooded asphalt.
My car waits, a dented chariot.
Getting in’s a contortionist act
performed
for an audience of bored crows 
on the power line: a percussive 
heft. The crows startle, fly off.
 
I crank the engine. It sputters, loyal,
as faded as the Dollar General sign.
Another small triumph
bought cheap, paid for in creaks 
and credit.
 
Temple? Nah. But it’s mine. 
The fluorescent lights know
exactly where they can stick
their cheerful hum.