Our Lady of the Late Night Laundromat

The jacket zipper bangs in the dryer,
but that’s the only sound happening here
other than me talking to hear myself.

I tried pretending to read a book, but,
you know, not really paying attention.
All these machines, not moving. Signs misspelled.

The guy behind the counter who can’t fix
a thing, who speaks a language I don’t know
when he does talk, and who’s right now asleep

on the desk. He’s still breathing. I made sure.
The emptiness echoes. It feels creepy
being here, at night, you know? There’s cameras,

but no one watches. If something went down,
it’d all be over before they checked.
At least I can get whatever machine

I want. And it smells good, just my own soap,
not everyone else’s. By the time your
laundry is in the dryer, I’ll be gone.

Yeah, it’ll be good to get home. Oh, what?
You need to borrow change for the dryer?
Not sure if I have any. A minute.

Maybe I have some change somewhere. Saved this
for some candy for my kid. No, no, s’OK.
I bet some loose coins fell out in my purse.

I’ll check later, when I get home. Yeah, sure,
you can pay me back next time. No worries.
Nice to meet you, too. Have a good night. Bye.

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2 responses to “Our Lady of the Late Night Laundromat

  1. Made me smile – remember every time I was traveling and using the laundromat (or going cuz one of our machines was broken at home) – strange mixture or anxiety and boredom there – chance meetings with strangers

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