Laundromat Constellations

At midnight the laundromat blooms in fluorescent weather. Drums of wet denim turn like small blue planets. Soap steam lifts, a private nebula over folding tables. Coins ring in the slot, thin bells for gravity.

An old woman feeds the machine and watches the glass as if waiting for weather reports from another decade. Her scarf is a red comet crossing aisle three, its tail stitched with lint and winter breath.

Outside, buses kneel and rise at the curb, doors sighing open like patient lungs. Inside, socks orbit without allegiance, each white moon searching for its twin.

When the spin cycle quiets, the room becomes shoreline. Warm shirts arrive in my arms like rescued birds. I step into the dark with a pocket of clean thunder, and the street above me keeps its scattered stars.