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

churn clockwise

then counter-clockwise

then spin

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 fold

three weeks of laundry.