Spin Cycle

The fluorescent lights hum like they're dying,

or maybe like something dead that's still trying.

I feed my coins into the slot,

watch the machine spin and spin—

this is the ritual I forgot I knew,

the hour I've traded for clean clothes.

The smell is industrial warmth,

fabric softener mixed with sweat,

with all the stains we can't explain

and the lives we're washing clean.

A woman folds her sheets with precision,

each crease a small decision,

and I wonder if she's been coming here for years,

if this fluorescent room feels like home.

My clothes tumble in the dryer.

The heat rises and rises.

I check my phone.

Still nothing.

When the cycle stops, I fold slowly,

the way that woman folds,

and maybe this is the point—

the precise fold, the careful stacking,

the way we make order out of

the clothes that fall apart in our lives.