The Laundry Mat: I Write as the Clothes Turn

Swish, filthy colors swirl before me each piece fighting for a glimpse out the small oval window.

I am convinced they are watching me.

Solace is found in the steady rhythm of the stainless steel boxes. I am fascinated, comforted by the mundane but tiring task.

Solitude is what I find in the small crowd of eager individuals different creeds and colors under one roof, only one objective in mind.

Silently they go about their tasks isolated at the speckled folding tables.

Sharp and uncomfortable and abrasive is the noise the chair utters against the worn desert colored tile. It doesn’t want to be forgotten.

Silly is what I feel, carefree and child-like as I pen this here.

Here of all places.