11 PM and the machines hum

11 PM and the machines hum

like they're thinking about sleep,

and I'm feeding quarters

into a dryer

that's already taken three loads.

A woman folds clothes

two machines over,

and I try not to watch,

but there's nothing else to look at—

just her hands moving,

just the intimacy of it,

just the way you can see

everything about a person

in the clothes they wear.

Her sweater is thin.

Her underwear is practical.

Her socks don't match.

I know things about her

I'll never know her name.

The lint trap

is packed solid,

gray like old snow,

like the filtered-out parts

of everyone's lives,

all the loose threads

and shed skin

and static

pressed into a brick.

I dump it in the trash

and it falls apart,

and I think:

this is what we leave behind.

This is what doesn't go home with us.

The woman catches my eye

and we both look away,

quick, like we've been caught

knowing something

we shouldn't.