Hell's Laundromat

I can't think of anything to write about but I feel the NEED - know what I mean? So I'll submit for your consideration a poem (I use the term loosely) I wrote a long time ago. It's short so I can remember it. I think.

Hell's Landromat

This is just a place
Where the damned wash their clothes.
We are not responsible
For Lost, Stolen, or Damaged Souls.

That's it. It kinda flows I guess.

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It's raining tonight. I took the dog out for one last walk of the day, and she shook off twice in the rain, once on the porch, and once in the house, then laid down. Sometimes I wish I knew what goes on in her dog brain. I read a Science fiction book once "Ender's Game", and minor character had a dog who had evolved to the point where he could speak simple 3 word sentences. He used his gift to try to mooch food, so I figure that's probably what's going on in Pickle's little brain.

Food and procreation. Food and procreation and barking. 'Cept she better not be procreating anytime soon, if she does then we need to get our money back.

Bye now.