The dryer is a hot wet lung

The dryer is a hot, wet lung

heaving my towels in circles.

Above the row of machines, the TV

is showing a city underwater.

The names of the streets are long

and full of vowels I can't place.

A red line crawls across the bottom,

bleeding into the reflection on the glass.

I watch my socks tumble over

the image of a man on a roof.

I should feel the weight of the water,

but all I can smell is the bleach

and the scorched lint in the trap.