The hum and grind

The hum and grind,

a low thrum in the gut.

Rows of white machines,

windows steaming shut.

My dryer light, still red.

Across the aisle, an older man,

hair thinned to thread,

folding baby clothes in his hand.

Small things, impossibly small.

He smoothed each one,

a tiny sock, a blanket, a small

square of fabric, carefully done.

His newspaper lay folded,

next to a basket, blue.

The lint trap, heavy with gray, molded

to the shape of what we shed anew.

The smell of hot metal,

and fabric softener, sweet.

Another load, another petal

falling from the day, incomplete.