Haibun: Car Wash

As I work the foam brush in spirals over the left front fender, I am tender and fairly crow and glow, going over how the ratio of sidepanel grime to time free to coins available are a perfect match. Time clicks down and I add another dollar.

As I scrub the right mirror, the water and clock stops. Eyes freeze.

blowing time
with bubble speed
who can vanish

Nothing for it but to leave. I have no coinage to scrimmage out from under the seats.

I put it in reverse, the windshield wipers clearing off a spot so I can see, acutely conscious of the bunched brow look from the unshaven burly beariness of the f10 driver in the next wash bay.

The body covered with suds, running in soapy streams, I park by the self-service auto vacuums, behind the green-streaked haired woman with the splooge of fat over every side of her jeans, her carefully pre-spiced heavy-metal T-shirt, her meticulous care to clean the groove around the door that must be vibrating with the roar of Led Zepplin.

breathing comes
with instructions
from within

If I drive at highway speed could I blow dry? If I catch a weather forecast, could I storm chase a storm front for a rinse? A bank to withdraw $5? Dripping all the way is still cleaner than a horse parade. The soap dries without shovels and shovellers. I decide to phone a friend who is minutes away.

a spray hose
spritzes better
with 2 gigglers

More haibun at One Deep Breath

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  1. haibun

    I love the way you found haibun at the carwash. That’s where the best
    poetry always is–right in the middle of ordinary life.

    Thanks for visiting my blog!


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