After the Laundromat Closes

At midnight the laundromat goes dark, but the warm drums of dryers keep spinning in my head, small moons tumbling shirts and work aprons, coins singing briefly, then gone.

Outside, neon leaks across the wet sidewalk, a pink river carrying gum wrappers and leaves. A bus exhales at the corner like an old brass horn, and the windows remember every face that waited there.

In the vending machine, a spiral of detergent cups glows like trapped planets, blue and patient. I think of my mother folding winter into squares, steam rising from sleeves like quiet prayers.

When dawn unlatches the metal gate, the city will return its ordinary weather of errands. Still, under all that daylight, a clean shirt will hold the hush of this hour.