Laundromat

It is the thought of going which is the worst
the piling of clothes into baskets and bags
the multiple trips down the three
flights of stairs
the finding of underwear
or a stray sock
that's lost its way
crouching on a public landing
while I mumble
all i want is a washing machine
over and over to myself.

But once in the car
I think about my blessings
the arms
the legs
the hands
that helped me carry

how I take it all for granted

The clothes spin
I read my book
ignore the five different channels
clattering for attention
and rest in this intersection
of different lives
our dirty laundry
our different stories
meeting for a morning
brushing up against
stained sheets and
sour baby clothes
outside the private darkness
of basements
where bras flip and twist
lonely
in their quiet den

missing the act of revelation