I dreamt that Marci yelled at me
when I wouldn’t put six boiled potatoes
and a stick of butter in the clothes dryer
and tumble up a batch of mashed potatoes
for Thanksgiving dinner.
I protested because we were in Page,
Arizona, and there was red sand in there.
But when I acquiesced I found
it made a kind of music.
As the family raged outside
the laundry room/bathroom
I sat on the toilet
and listened to rocks & butter
fight their way to a soothing
almost silence.
