Rye Road Laundry

He fishes out my missing sock
from the spin-drier, shows me the gap
they escape through. It's that little-girl number
I bought in England, lipsticks
and mirrors dancing pinkly all over.
I am embarrassed, but he is only concerned
about his convenience store and pizza-to-go
losing money, and how much a sale would fetch.
I describe my walk round the lake, how good
to be alone, not like the gossipy
women in pairs, shoulders tense, bitching about work
and ex-husbands, not looking around at gathering
geese or golden birches. "My ex walks
there every day," he says. I go even redder.