The Hum

The machines hum the same sound,

quarter by quarter going round.

A woman folds the same stack of sheets

over and over, steady beats,

her hands moving the same way,

the same rhythm, the same day

happening again and again.

Ninety minutes, and I've been

sitting here watching her fold.

The fluorescent light is old,

the same buzz it always is.

The spin cycle starts with a fizz—

another quarter dropped, another load,

time moving down a different road

in a laundromat at three

in the afternoon where people go to be

alone together, where clothes

spin in the dark, where nobody knows

why you're here or what you're waiting for.

She folds. The machines roar.

The steam rises. The light hums.

I'm waiting for my clothes to come

back clean, but mostly I'm watching her,

the way her movements blur

together, the way she knows

exactly how the fabric goes,

the way her hands move without thinking,

the way she doesn't notice me watching.

She folds the same sheet again.

She'll be back here next week, and then

the week after that.

The machines will hum the same way back.