All-night Laundromat

I worked the afternoon shift at the lumber mill
which meant doing my laundry at midnight,

a chore I grew fond of,
like being handcuffed by flowers —

fond of,
like the waitress I recognized from Barney’s,
who seemed to like me,
and laughed at herself for failing to add the Tide,

or the homeless guy that came in and told us
about the passageway, “under this very floor,”
leading to the Pentagon,

or the two women in muscle shirts
who quarreled over one particular washer,
when four others were available,

or the mill worker who smoked a bowl
standing under the neon sign,
then happily stared at his tumbling coveralls,
for the entire 30 minutes,

or the man who occasionally stepped in
to scream at us for getting abortions,

or the girl who stripped down to her bra,
and added to the wash, her dog’s red bandana,

or the couple who came in from the rain,
sat under the folding table
and fell asleep in each other’s arms,

or like all of us, creatures of midnight,
hard to believe 
we are all, “walking balls of light,”
but that’s exactly what the homeless guy told us.