Night Shift Constellations

At two a.m. the laundromat is a small aquarium, windows fogged with the breath of dryers. Coins ring in the change machine like minnows striking tin light.

A woman folds galaxies into rectangles, warm constellations of cotton and soap. Outside, buses kneel and rise at the curb, their doors opening like patient gills.

In the spin cycle, shirts become weather, a private storm lit blue by vending machines. I watch socks orbit a bright plastic moon and think of planets that never touch.

When the last load clicks quiet, dawn rinses the glass. We leave carrying clean thunder in paper sacks. The street smells of rain and detergent, and day begins, newly laundered, on our shoulders.