A Tale of Two Washerwomen

I hate washerwomen. 
I hate the way they cackle, two fisted, hands like tentacles,
loss of brain pressure exiting out the ends of their frayed hair.
I hate that feeling you get, when you walk into a room, through a street
in a moving place
and people are talking so vigorously-
not loud like fishermen, dockside whores or peasants
expressing over just how the sun rises across the sky for them,
but like dead, bloated air filling a room, clocking you over the head with their ignorance
while sounding so utterly sure of themselves, their many entitlements,
which they never stop to question, shadows which keep their distance around their feet,
are ones they would never stoop to step back into, thinking themselves deserving
of the spotlight.
I'd like to slap them across their silly fat heads,
knock 'em down lengthwise to the ground and blow up some cloud space
in front of them, forcing the shadows into their empty, narrow lights.
Keep washing your clothes, you fools of bitches, you.
It's all you're good for.
Keep plotting inside your priviledged little brains
at all that you buy and seek.  Your garnering asses will sink pretty soon
into a black worm hole of fire and picked apart equations
which you won't allow yourself one second of quietude for understanding.
I know where all of my stains live.
I like them there, my cast of thousands sailing on by;
no time for your puzzle pieces fuzzy and broke, when I can kick, and tongue
dangle off the limbs of the skies.
While you scrub, and chatter, and grow forlorn there at the muddy banks
of your own creation.  Keep watching the horizon---
ain't no boats coming anytime soon.  I apologize if some random drops fall
lustily from the base of the sky. It gets wild, it does, when you've stopped
remembering how to lie. 

M. Lucia