Occupancy

The fluorescent lights flickered

over twenty heads bowed toward the blue light

of their own thumbs.

The dryer door is a porthole,

and inside, a single white sock

is pinned against the rubber seal,

damp and unmoving while the rest of the load

tumbles in a hot, chaotic circle.

I caught my own face in the reflection,

shoulders rounded like a question mark I forgot to ask.

I’m just a body taking up the air

between the folding table and the change machine,

waiting for the heat to stop.