Cartography of the Laundromat

The laundromat is a small planet of light, coins orbiting the palms of late workers, steam rising like news no one reads, and shirts spinning, white fish in a glass tide.

A woman folds a map of her son's hoodie, creases the sleeves into rivers and roads; outside, buses hiss, a low weather moving the city one damp block at a time.

I lean on the dryer, listening to the drum count its own heartbeats in quarters and pause, watching lint gather like migrating dust, a soft continent with no known name.

When the last door clicks, the room exhales; fluorescent buzz fades into rain. I carry warm cotton against my chest, as if holding a small animal of heat.