Laundromat Constellation

At midnight the laundromat hums like a reef of glass, drums turning galaxies from shirtsleeves and rain. Neon leaks across the tiles in thin blue rivers, and every coin dropped rings once, then disappears.

A woman folds light into squares of warm cotton, steam lifting from collars like small surrendered ghosts. Outside, buses kneel and open their bright mouths, swallowing names, receipts, the day's last apologies.

I watch my jacket orbit the window's black mirror, buttons flashing like fish when the cycle tilts. Detergent and ozone braid the air into weather that belongs to no season, only to waiting.

When the final buzzer shivers through the room, we gather our private climates into plastic baskets. Dawn is still far off, but the east has begun to pale behind the vending machine's patient little moon.