Laundromat at Two A.M.

The neon hum is a thin blue ribbon stitched to the fogged glass doors. Quarters bloom in my palm, small moons waiting for orbit. Inside, the washers turn like slow planets, sleeves and sheets caught in their weather. A tide of cotton rises, collapses, and the floor answers with a soft metallic rain. Someone folds a shirt with the care of a map, creasing streets they can walk home by. A lone sock circles in the drum, a small comet refusing a pair. The air is warm with steam and detergent, the scent of a life rinsed clean for morning. Between cycles, a hush opens wide, and even the machines listen to it.