Laundromat Before Dawn

At four a.m. the laundromat aquariums with light, shirts turning like slow planets behind round glass. Outside, rain beads the bikes into bright-boned animals, and the street exhales steam through iron grates.

A woman folds thunder out of a blue blanket, coins clink like small moons in her palm. Detergent and wet wool rise, a warm metallic orchard, every spin cycle humming a held note.

On the plastic chair, I watch my reflection blur, stitched to strangers by the whir of machines. Our lives revolve in separate drums of water, yet for an hour the same tide pulls us.

When the doors unlock to morning, we carry clean weather on our arms. The sky is pale as fresh paper, and even the puddles look rewritten.