i'm pretty sure it's mine

well, i went to the laundromat
looking for my old Beach Boys hat
and a little bit of this
and a little of that
and in the far right corner on the hardwood floor
i saw a group of lost boys and just one more:
an old friend sat sitting by the dusty coin machine
trying to remember his recent midnight dream
swaying steadily on a cheap three-legged seat
waiting for a passing washer woman to meet
when he asked me how my life has been:
i saw he was wearing my favorite hat underneath his toothy grin;
ah yes, I didn't have to guess,
and thought what did he know about the fateful cycles of life?
do they spin dry from the first husband to the last wife?
and is anything ever truly lint free?
does anybody fold their dirty laundry under the weeping willow tree?
well, in the village square
i no longer know any living person there
and in my Ford truck when the radio blows
i remember all the old vaudeville comedy shows
and at half past five
i'm usually ticking but barely alive
thinking of a quarter buying a pack of menthol cigarettes
and that's about as happy as this young man gets
heading down the road inside my head
dreaming of my cozy unmade bed,
carrying a pocket full of memories and a couple of bucks
thinking, ah, what the hell, aw shucks!
so, crazy as it sounds, I replied to the man that life has been steady and fine
and thanks for the hat because i'm pretty sure it's mine.