At the Planetarium Laundromat

At midnight the laundromat glows like an aquarium, drums of shirts turning slow as moon phases, quarters ring in the tray, small eclipses of metal, and rain writes constellations on the glass.

A child points at the spin cycle and whispers, Saturn. Soap breath lifts, clean and mineral, into fluorescent air; we wait with baskets on our knees like patient telescopes, watching sleeves and socks orbit toward brightness.

From the back dryer, heat spills out in orange weather. I fold a towel that still remembers someone’s shoulder, a map of warmth fading by degrees, as if dawn were practicing on cotton first.

When the last machine clicks quiet, we carry galaxies home: fresh linen, static, the hush after distant thunder. On every porchline tomorrow, white flags of morning will rise and flutter from the dark.