What would I NOT miss if I were to leave today

[Kari]

I wrote a poem about the things I would NOT miss if I were to leave and sell my Laundromat. I don't hate these things cause they are part of the business but I would not miss them. I am working on one about the things I WOULD miss if I were to leave. When it is done I will send it your way. The reference to hell at the very end is in reference to the town we live in.

Things I Will Not Miss
Hot early mornings and cold ones too,
Especially when the smelly trash is due.
Filthy, screaming children running about.
A slow weekend day that brings some doubt.
Broken machines after someone's thoughtless abuse.
Mopping the floor after so little use.
Sticky fingerprints that seem to appear,
After I spent so much time making them disappear.
The boom of vulgar music ringing in my ear.
And loud voices around for everyone to hear.
The long hot days and hours worked alone.
Children trying to buy candy with a single stone.
The sour smell of sweaty clothes.
The feel of concrete dust up my nose.
The constant wiping of other people's grim.
Old crusted socks left behind.
The lint that settles upon everything.
The smell of wetness that just seems to ling.
People sucking up liquid making a mess.
Old ladies complaining about spots on a dress.
Freedom of having lots of snacks to grab
Feel of dressing and looking so drab.
Assorted colors melted by the heat.
Mud brought in on booted feet.
Washing someone else's underwear and socks
Totting around keys to so many locks.
Bleach spots on my favorite shirt.
Sweeping up all that dirt.
Cleaning the bathrooms of all their smells.
Paying thousands for machines with whistles and bells.
Checking pockets with fear of what you might find.
Disciplining the children who don't seem to mind.
Watching gas prices climb so high.
Being hit on by the old toothless guy.
Sleepless nights of wondering about down the street.
Long hard days of keeping things neat.
Worrying about the next slip and fall.
Wondering who is planning to sue you for all.
Picking up the butts out in the lot.
Scorches from zippers and buttons so hot.
Hiring employees you think you can trust.
Staying away from old men and their dirty lust.
Dealing with the Gov and their paperwork too.
Dryer sheets that show up out of the blue.
The screech of nails scraping around.
The sick machine bellowing it's sound.
The new competition down the road.
A machine too small for it's load
Pennies in places that are not meant to be.
Glancing at my account and finding a fee.
Troubleshooting a machine when it doesn't work so well.
And the long hot days of living in hell.


June 25, 2006
By Kari Crist

[Walter]

Kari,

Here's another (and different) poetic point of view on this contemplative day...


The City Limits

When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds' bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening, when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of sh.. and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.


A. R. Ammons
Archie Randolph Ammons was born outside Whiteville, North Carolina, in 1926. He started writing poetry aboard a U. S. Navy destroyer escort in the South Pacific. After completing service in World War II, he attended Wake Forest University. He went on to work as a real estate salesman, an editor, and an executive in his father's glass company before he began teaching at Cornell University in 1964. Ammons wrote nearly thirty books of poetry, among them Bosh and Flapdoodle (W. W. Norton, 2005); Glare (1997); Garbage (1993), which won the National Book Award and the Library of Congress's Rebekah Johnson Bobbitt National Prize for Poetry; A Coast of Trees (1981), which received the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry; Sphere (1974), which received the Bollingen Prize; and Collected Poems 1951-1971 (1972), which won the National Book Award.

His many other honors included the Academy's Wallace Stevens Award, the Poetry Society of America's Robert Frost Medal, the Ruth Lilly Prize, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lived in Ithaca, New York, where he was Goldwin Smith Professor of Poetry at Cornell University until his retirement in 1998. A. R. Ammons died on February 25, 2001.

[Coinwash]

I wrote a poem about the things I would NOT miss if I were to leave and sell my Laundromat. I don't hate these things cause they are part of the business but I would not miss them. I am working on one about the things I WOULD miss if I were to leave. When it is done I will send it your way. The reference to hell at the very end is in reference to the town we live in.

Things I Will Not Miss
Hot early mornings and cold ones too,
Especially when the smelly trash is due.
Filthy, screaming children running about.
A slow weekend day that brings some doubt.
Broken machines after someone's thoughtless abuse.
Mopping the floor after so little use.
Sticky fingerprints that seem to appear,
After I spent so much time making them disappear.
The boom of vulgar music ringing in my ear.
And loud voices around for everyone to hear.
The long hot days and hours worked alone.
Children trying to buy candy with a single :eek::eek::eek::eek::eek:.
The sour smell of sweaty clothes.
The feel of concrete dust up my nose.
The constant wiping of other people's grim.
Old crusted socks left behind.
The lint that settles upon everything.
The smell of wetness that just seems to ling.
People sucking up liquid making a mess.
Old ladies complaining about spots on a dress.
Freedom of having lots of snacks to grab
Feel of dressing and looking so drab.
Assorted colors melted by the heat.
Mud brought in on booted feet.
Washing someone else's underwear and socks
Totting around keys to so many locks.
Bleach spots on my favorite shirt.
Sweeping up all that dirt.
Cleaning the bathrooms of all their smells.
Paying thousands for machines with whistles and bells.
Checking pockets with fear of what you might find.
Disciplining the children who don't seem to mind.
Watching gas prices climb so high.
Being hit on by the old toothless guy.
Sleepless nights of wondering about down the street.
Long hard days of keeping things neat.
Worrying about the next slip and fall.
Wondering who is planning to sue you for all.
Picking up the butts out in the lot.
Scorches from zippers and buttons so hot.
Hiring employees you think you can trust.
Staying away from old men and their dirty lust.
Dealing with the Gov and their paperwork too.
Dryer sheets that show up out of the blue.
The screech of nails scraping around.
The sick machine bellowing it's sound.
The new competition down the road.
A machine too small for it's load
Pennies in places that are not meant to be.
Glancing at my account and finding a fee.
Troubleshooting a machine when it doesn't work so well.
And the long hot days of living in hell.


June 25, 2006
By Kari Crist

Kari,

Here's another (and different) poetic point of view on this contemplative day...


The City Limits

When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds' bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening, when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of sh.. and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.


A. R. Ammons
Archie Randolph Ammons was born outside Whiteville, North Carolina, in 1926. He started writing poetry aboard a U. S. Navy destroyer escort in the South Pacific. After completing service in World War II, he attended Wake Forest University. He went on to work as a real estate salesman, an editor, and an executive in his father's glass company before he began teaching at Cornell University in 1964. Ammons wrote nearly thirty books of poetry, among them Bosh and Flapdoodle (W. W. Norton, 2005); Glare (1997); Garbage (1993), which won the National Book Award and the Library of Congress's Rebekah Johnson Bobbitt National Prize for Poetry; A Coast of Trees (1981), which received the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry; Sphere (1974), which received the Bollingen Prize; and Collected Poems 1951-1971 (1972), which won the National Book Award.

His many other honors included the Academy's Wallace Stevens Award, the Poetry Society of America's Robert Frost Medal, the Ruth Lilly Prize, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lived in Ithaca, New York, where he was Goldwin Smith Professor of Poetry at Cornell University until his retirement in 1998. A. R. Ammons died on February 25, 2001.

I was reading through the posts and I wanted to bring this one back up ;)
Coinwash Staffer

[pete f]

Interesting poem, I think newbies shoudl read it, puts some things never thought about up front.
Did Kari check out? Have not heard from her in some time. Her notation of hell, ie, where she lived is a common thing, many people move to Florida then end up hating it. Still, about 900 more people a day come than leave.

[DaveLevenson]

The Laundry Man
(tune: The Piano Man, Billy Joel)

It's nine A M at the laundromat;
The regular crowd trudges in,
Dragging hampers and baskets and laundry bags.
It's wash-day on Main Street again.
...
One says, "Sir, can you wash me this comforter,
I'm not really sure what it weighs,
For it's old and it's worn, and it's tattered and torn,
And I know that it's seen better days."

Oh la la la, de-de da
La la, de-de da, da-dum

Chorus:
Wash me some clothes, you're the laundry man.
Bring me some Clorox and Tide.
For we're all in the mood to do laundry,
And you've got to keep us supplied.

Now Noel is the Wascomat salesman
He gives me advice for free
'Cause he knows I'll be needing equipment
And he'd like to provide it to me.
...
He says: "Dave, you could use some more dryers,
A new heater would save you some gas,
And replacing those tops with new Wascos
Would sure give this old place some class."

Oh, la la-la de-de da
La la, de-de da da dum

Now a customer loads up a Unimat,
She fills it with soap, to the top.
When it spins, well I know, it will all overflow
So I'll just go and get out the mop.
...
The attendant is practicing English
As the washers fill slowly with foam
And they're washing their laundry in public
But it's better than washing at home.

Chorus:
Wash me some clothes, you're the laundry man.
Bring me some Clorox and Tide.
For we're all in the mood to do laundry,
And you've got to keep us supplied.

It's a pretty good crowd for a Wednesday,
And the washers all turn for a while,
And the dryers are hot, and there's coin in the slot,
And I think it has all been worthwhile.
...
And the washers sound like a turbine,
And the dryers smell like chlorine
And folks stare at their duds, as they spin in the suds,
And say "man this stuff really gets clean!"

Oh la la la, de-de da
La la, de-de da, da-dum

Chorus:
Wash me some clothes, you're the laundryman
Bring me some Clorox and Tide
For we're all in the mood to do laundry
And you've got to keep us supplied.

[pete f]

Crap I wish I had talent! I laugh and cry as I sing your song. I have to find a band to sing it, God knows I can barley turn on a radio much less carry a tune.

[DaveLevenson]

Crap I wish I had talent! I laugh and cry as I sing your song. I have to find a band to sing it, God knows I can barely turn on a radio much less carry a tune.

Thanks, Pete. If you can get anyone to record it, please let me know, I'd like to hear it sung right. I hereby place the lyrics in the public domain for any use anyone wants to make of it. (The tune is probably copyright by Billy Joel.)

I realized too late, after I bought my mat, that I should have had a "Grand Opening" to publicize the change of ownership. But when I had owned it for one year, we held an event. We issued a press-release to the local papers (they actually printed it! -- perhaps because we advertise in their paper regularly) and invited the whole town to a Karaoke party at the mat. We called the event "Wash N Sing" (The store is called Wash N Shop). Free snacks and soda, and soap to all who showed up, and a free wash to all who sang. I hired a DJ to host the karaoke, and we made sure it was audible on the street outside. When it was my turn, I sang that song, inviting my guests to join in on chorus. Got a few laughs. But lots of people remembered the event, and it put us on the map for a while. That was the object.