My machine a gutwrenching cough then

My machine, a gut-wrenching cough, then

nothing. Half-done shirts, soaking in a metal trough.

So I came here, to the whir and then

the heavy drum's soft puff.

A strange, shared warmth, damp and clean,

air thick with detergent,

a quiet, mechanical scene.

Each cycle, its own urgent

rhythm. My clothes tumble, red, then blue,

through the glass, a slow rotation.

They fall and lift, what else can they do?

A quiet, forced meditation.

Outside, the gray sky, a steady drip,

the world always damp, always moving slow.

Inside, this constant, powerful slip

of metal, letting something grow

clean again.