Chinese Clothes

I woke up in a hard bed—not mine.
It was a mouse that startled me out of a dream
that I was home in my mother’s laundry room,
listening to the swish of water in the machine.

I turned to see my lover sloshing clothes
in a small red soapy bucket. 
Before I could speak, the paperboy howled
through the window: morning paper, morning paper,
not in my language. I wondered
how many miles stretch between here and home.

He rolled his eyes toward the window.
Every day, he said, using a Chinese phrase
I’d only learned a week before.
He carried the bucket with scuttle steps
to the plastic clothesline that was half outdoors and half in.

I watched him hang white T-shirts and jeans
with creaky clothespins. There was no breeze
to dry them or chase the smoke from my cigarette.

Brenna Dugan