Laundromat Cassanova

In the laundromat tonight, a young man in ragged bluejeans and red flannel shirt—the buttons off by one, making diagonal slants down his shirt. A half-shaven face. His blonde hair a pile of straw, awry, like a broom that’s been jabbed into many corners, A cigar fat as a screwdriver handle, constantly chewed and spun. He tries to flirt with the laundromat attendant. I catch this girl—outwardly friendly—giving her fellow laundry maid a glance that says, “God save me from this creek bather.” ~ Journal, Jan 20, 1986