Spinning in Place

The neon sign buzzed uneven,

a slow heartbeat in the dark,

casting light through cracked windows

onto plastic chairs, torn and stained.

Inside, the machines whispered

metal secrets, rinse cycles

that stretched like thin breaths,

bare and waiting.

Power flickered—gone—

and silence dropped hard

like wet clothes on tile.

I sat, the chair creaking beneath me,

watching the clothes stop tumbling,

stuck in a quiet that felt too long.

Around me, strangers’ loads—

shirts and socks, stories

folded and folded again,

never quite dry,

always caught

between cycles,

spinning in place.