Laundromat
Sitting sideways,
watching clothes tumble
wrapping herself
in the soft, delicate
quiet of midnight
An old, tired
man, wrinkles gripping
his haggard face
turns sleepily, face blank;
his breathing, a fight.
He watches, cold,
waiting for his shirts,
his socks, his smock
praying the artist's paint
had not bled through blue.
A Latina girl,
young, and full of life,
zipping her eyes,
this way and then that way,
never settling.
She understood
the cruelty of just
accepting what
life thrusted at innocents;
she will never break.
She sits, cradled
against machine and
man, scribbling her
thoughts, just as always, like
she was trained to do.
Three strangers sit,
and wait for finished
laundry, muse to
just themselves in the
breakable dark,
in the quiet of midnight.