I like laundromats.
I don’t like them when they’re busy
and bustling with work-tired waitresses,
or old women with threadbare pensions.
But I like them on a warm Monday afternoon
when everyone else is wasting away at work.
I like the watery swish and swoosh and woosh
of my clothes as they sud and spin.
I like the satisfying hum of whirring industrial dryers.
And I like the colorful, uncomfortable plastic bucket seats
bought from some secondhand furniture store
20 years before.
I even like the fluffy grey dust and cobwebs
that have settled between the machines,
the water-stained ceiling tiles,
the table covered in lost socks
(as if anyone is ever going to claim them),
the peeling and faded numbers
that number each well-worn washer,
and the quickly scrawled “out of order” signs
that those new to the laundromat miss
before first entrusting their load
to the shiny silver drum
and filling the crusty old compartment
with cheap corner store detergent.
I’m not sure when I started liking places
such as this or why,
I just know that I do.
unlike modern, marble-floored five-star hotels,
there’s more here to hold on to —
the perfect place for those of us
who’re never quite satisfied with ‘enough’.