Hearing Range

The soap is a thick, chemical quilt

smothering the windshield.

Outside, the giant brushes

thump against the metal doors

like a heavy, rhythmic penance.

I’m sitting in the neutral gear,

letting the machine pull me

through the dark of the tunnel.

I want to lean my forehead

against the dust-clogged mesh

of a sliding wooden window,

to tell a stranger why my back hurts.

But the water clears,

the light turns green,

and the dryer hits the glass

until it’s too clear to look through.