Incident at the White Dove Laundromat
Three weeks of laundry
unceremoniously stuffed into six machines
cramming every crevice of a dollar-fifty wash.
Ignoring the accusing stares of my fellow patrons,
I plummet into a pre-molded plastic chair
to watch the waves of fabric
in a tornado of clean clothing.
The heavy-duty industrial washer sounds off
like a jet on a runway—
shaking like a rage-filled beast
ready to explode.
Bleary-eyed, I sit
directly across from the spectacle
wondering what will kill me—
the impact of a self-destructing spin cycle
or the realization of having to foldthree weeks of laundry.