Night Shift at the Laundromat

At dawn the laundromat windows bloom with steam, shirts revolve like pale moons in their weather, and an old woman feeds quarters to the morning as if lighting candles in a tin cathedral.

Outside, buses kneel and exhale iron breath; rain beads on the newsbox, bright as fish eggs. A boy in a yellow coat drags a violin case through puddles that remember every siren.

He opens the latch beneath the station awning. One note rises, thin as a thread of smoke, then gathers pigeons, coffee hands, tired nurses, stitching their separate shadows into one cloth.

When the sun finally climbs the courthouse glass, the city wears his melody like clean skin. Even the crosswalk light seems to pause and listen, green turning to green, and then to grace.