The Laundromat

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Time to me has been
the slow digestion
of my existence
tumbling on
to itself and mixing
like cement with some
surprisingly, pink shirts.
I have been cautious
not to get my thoughts
caught
in the teeth
of such a confusing
contraption.
But now the repetition
of obsessively tucking
and folding
my torn tube socks
has got me thinking
of the machinery of life,
and how
we seem to be
waiting
for something to
stop turning and
stop crushing
so we can stop-
and smell the scents
of Mountain Freshness
and Spring Lillies.
I have become consumed
by the consistant whirling
of sound and heat,
and now I can sense
the static energy
of my own apparatus
chasing some
ghostly syncopation
of what our collective minds
must believe
is the music of life.