The Unclaimed

The machine still smells like my sweater.

I came back the next day, same time,

and the door was empty.

Just lint matted in the filter,

the metal cage where my clothes had been,

hot and folded maybe,

waiting for someone to claim them.

I should have taken them out.

That's what you're supposed to do.

Take them out, fold them in the plastic basket,

leave room for the next person's grief,

their forgotten quarters,

their own abandoned load.

But I'd forgotten the time,

or the day had forgotten me,

and when I came back it was gone—

not stolen exactly,

but taken by whoever runs this place,

whoever gets paid to deal with the things

people leave behind.

Laundromats are where impermanence lives.

Everything temporary.

Everyone moving on.

Your clothes touch someone else's clothes,

your soap mingles with their detergent,

you sit in the plastic chairs

where a hundred people have sat

with the same blank stare,

waiting for the spin cycle to finish,

waiting to be done.

I don't go back.

There's another laundromat two blocks away.

But I know my sweater is probably still there,

in a donation bag,

keeping someone else warm,

or rotting in a landfill,

or being worn by a stranger

who doesn't know it was mine first.