Laundrymat

LAUNDRYMAT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994



Amazing how much life you can find

in mundane places.

The brutal death

of a washer and dryer -

stupid pieces of machinery -

suddenly necessitates going out to do

an almost intimate act.

God forbid the shower dies!

But,

clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,

and I'm out of the house with my beloved.

We've traded one outing with another,

been reduced to

watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers

instead of artsy movies,

bags of chips and canned sodas over

popcorn and Milk-Duds.

I stand,

leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,

watching the towels and jeans,

t-shirts and sheets

tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.

Looking beyond,

the glass reflects different scenes,

people framed in metal circles.

What a strange way to watch someone.

After a while,

it's obvious how folks live;

we give ourselves away

in a hundred different ways:

two children playing quietly together,

two others wrestling around,

parents watching,

talking,

etc.

After a while,

nuances emerge.

"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."

It's Sunday night;

school and work tomorrow,

tonight,

whatever.

One machine done;

the others needed

an extra quarter.

Sitting,

I leaf through months old magazines;

"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";

"Cool salads for hot evenings."

It's late November;

Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here

sometime around Easter.

Finally,

it's finished;

I bundle up the clothes

in plastic garbage bags

and leave for my pseudo-real life.



Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.

This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.