Laundromat Constellations

At midnight the laundromat blooms in blue neon, windows sweating small weather reports onto the street. Drums turn with the patience of planets, and socks drift in orbit around a plastic moon.

A woman folds thunderheads into neat white squares, steam lifting from her sleeves like quiet horses. The vending machine hums one bright note, a tuning fork for the rain leaning on the roof.

I feed quarters to the chrome mouth of morning, watch my shirt and yesterday trade names in foam. Outside, buses pass like slow-lit comets, dragging their amber tails through puddled constellations.

When the final cycle sighs, the city softens. Warm cloth gathers in my arms, a borrowed sunrise. I step out carrying weather, clean and temporary, while dawn unbuttons itself over the avenue.